c 


l\SV^        Jl, 


POEMS 


WRITTEN"  FROM  YOUTH  TO  OLD  AGE, 

1824-1884. 


BY 


JOHN  HOWARD  BRYANT. 


PRINCETON,  ILLINOIS: 

t.  P.  STREETER,  LESSEE,  REPUBLICAN  JOP,  DEPARTMENT, 

1885. 


/ 


TO  THE  READER. 


The  Author  of  the  following  pieces  has  not  come  before  the 
public  with  the  thought  of  acquiring  any  very  extended  or  per 
manent  reputation  as  a  writer  of  Poetry.  But  as  most  of  these 
verses  have  appeared  onlv  in  the  short-lived  pages  of  the  news 
papers,  and  as  some  of  them  have  been  pretty  widely  copied  with 
expressions  of  approval,  he  has  not  thought  it  presumptuous  in 
him  to  put  them  in  a  more  durable  form,  and  present  them  to  the 
public  as  they  now  appear. — Edition  of  1855. 


These  Poems  were  written  at  various  dates,  covering  a  period 
of  more  than  half  a  century,  during  which  time  great  movements 
and  changes  in  the  world  of  thought  and  opinion  have  been  going 
forward.  The  writer  has  not  remained  unaffected  by  these  influ 
ences.  If,  therefore,  some  incongruity  appears  between  the  earlier 
and  the  later  pieces,  it  is  but  natural,  and  I  have  thought  it  best  to 
let  them  stand  together  as  written. 

The  order  in  which  these  Poems  appear  in  this  volume  is  with 
out  reference  to  the  time  when  they  were  written. 

PRINCETON,  ILLINOIS,  JULY,  1885. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

My  Native  Vale 9 

The  Traveller's  Return 1 1 

The  Blind  Restored  to  Sight 13 

The  Mountain  Graveyard 15 

Sonnet — Beautiful  Streamlet,  &c 19 

The  Wanderer's  Lament. 20 

A  Night  Scene 24 

Hymn  _. 27 

The  Hermit  Thrush. 30 

The   Emigrant 33 

Indian  Summer 36 

The  New  England  Pilgrim's  Funeral 38 

Sonnet — 'Tis  Autumn,  &c 41 

Sonnet — There  is  a  Magic,  &c 42 

Lament  of  the  Corsair's  Wife 43 

Sonnet   to .. .. 46 

Song  of  the  Chamois  Hunters 47 

Winter 51 

The   Brook- walk 55 

Sonnet — Like  Music,  £c 63 

Sonnet — October __ 64 

On  Leaving  the  Place  of  my  Nativity 65 

Roger  Crane 69 

The  Better   Part.. 74 


V. 


Senatch wine's  Grave 76 

Sonnet 79 

The  Ancient  Oak 80 

A  Day  in  Autumn 83 

Lines  on  Finding  a  Fountain  &c 85 

The  Emigrant's  Song 88 

After  Death 90 

The  Little  Cloud 92 

The  Valley  Brook- 94 

A    Reverie 97 

Invocation ..   99 

The   Maples.. 102 

A  Recollection 107 

Border  Courtship — A  Reminiscence 109 

John  Smith's  Epistle  to  Kate .116 

A  Summer  Morning  Scene 120 

Written  at  Cummington,  1870 123 

Lines  Written  on  Visiting  My  Birthplace,  May,  1866 125 

A  Fragment __ ..127 

Uncertainty ..128 

Sonnet ug 

The  Outcast --130 

The  Approach  of  Age 133 

Song  of  Labor --136 

The  Hills  of  Paradise .138 

Hymn 140 

Death  of  Lincoln .142 

Drought .14-5 

Days  at  Nassau 14.5 

Sad  News  from  Home 148 

Autumn 150 

Three  Sonnets 12 


VI. 


Autumnal  Evenings 154. 

Lines  Without  Name 157 

To  H.— 1831 161 

Upward,  Onward 165 

Welcome  to  the  Returned  Veterans,  1863 .    ... 166 

Welcome  to  the  Returned  Soldiers,  1865 ryo 

For  a  Golden  Wedding,  Sep.  21,  1863 173 

Then  and  Now— Read  at  the  Old  Settlers' Meeting,  1864 178 

Temperance — Read   before   the   Princeton,    Bureau    County, 

Washingtonian  Society,  December    1840- 185 

In  Memoriam iSS 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  M 190 

On  the  Death  of  Ichabod  Codding 192 

Farewell  Hymn. ..194 

Installation  Hymn 195 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Dedication  of  the  Princeton  High  School 

Building 197 

Dedication  Hymn . ......  199 

Poem  for  December  22d » 200 

At  the  Tomb  of  Lincoln -  204 

Hymn  Sung  at  the  Congregational  Church,  at  Princeton,  at  the 
Last  Service  Held  in  their  Old  House  of  Worship,  1845. .208 

Hymn 210 

In  Meinorium -- ..211 

Sonnet 213 

War 214 

Lines  Written  for  Decoration  Day,  May  3oth,  1879 216 

Hymn  Written  for  the  Cummington  Centennial 218 

Century  Poem — Read  at  the  Cumminglon  Centennial  Celebra 
tion,  June  26th,  1879 219 

A  Monody . .•-  234 

Notes. .  238-239 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 

MY  NATIVE  VALE. 

There  stands  a  dwelling  in  a  peaceful  vale, 
With  sloping  hills  and  waving  woods  around, 

Fenced  from  the  blast.     There  never  ruder  gale 
Bows  the  tall  grass  that  covers  all  the  ground; 

And  planted  shrubs  are  there,  and   cherished 
flowers, 

And  brightest  verdure  born  of  gentle  showers. 

'Twas  there  my  young  existence  was  begun; 

My  earliest  sports  were  on  its  flowery  green; 
And  often,  when  my  school- boy  task  was  done, 

I  climbed  its  hills  to  view  the  pleasant  scene, 
And  stood  and  gazed  till  the  sun's  setting  ray 
Shone  on  the  height — the  sweetest  of  the  day. 

There, when  that  hour  of  mellow  light  was  come, 
And   mountain  shadows  cooled  the  ripened 
grain, 

I  watched  the  weary  yeoman  plodding  home 
In  the  lone  path  that  winds  across  the  plain, 

To  rest  his  limbs,  and  watch  his  child  at  play, 

And  tell  him  o'er  the  labors  of  the  day. 


10 


And  when  the  woods  put  on  their  autumn  glow, 
And  the  bright  sun  came  in  among  the  trees, 

And  leaves  were  gathered  in -the  glen  below, 
Swept  softly  from  the  mountain  by  the  breeze, 

I  wandered,  till  the  starlight,  on  the  stream, 

At  length  awoke  me  from  my  fairy  dream. 

Ah!  happy  days,  too  happy  to  return, 

Fled  on  the  wings  of  youth's  departed  years: 

A  bitter  lesson  has  been  mine  to  learn, 

The  truth  of  life,  its  labors,  pains,  and  fears. 

Yet  does  the  memory  of  my  boyhood  stay, 

A  twilight  of  the  brightness  passed  away. 

My  thoughts  steal  back  to  that  dear  dwelling 

still, 

Its  flowers  and  peaceful  shades  before  me  rise: 
The  play-place  and  the  prospect  from  the  hill, 

Its  summer  verdure  and  autumnal  dyes; 
The  present  brings  its  storms,  but.  while  they 

last, 
I  shelter  seek  in  the  delightful  past. 


11 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  RETURN. 

I   stood   upon   an   airy   height,    in    summer 

verdure  drest; 
Tall  trees,  the  elders  of  the  wood,  rose  o'er  me 

to  the  west. 
A  lovely  vale  before  me  lay,  and  on  the  golden 

air 
Crept  the  blue  smoke,  in  quiet  trains,  from  roofs 

that  clustered  there. 
I  saw  where,  in  my  early  days,  I  passed  the 

pleasant  hours 

Beside  the  winding  brook  that  still  went  prat 
tling  to  its  flowers; 
And  still,  around  my  parent's  home,  the  slender 

poplars  grew, 
Whose  glossy  leaves  were  swaved  and  turned 

O  v  *J 

by  every  wind  that  blew. 
The  clover  with  its  heavy  bloom  was  tossing  in 

the  gale, 
And    the    tall    crowfoot's    yellow    stars    still 

sprinkled  all  the  vale; 
The  forests  stood  as  freshly  green  and  stretched 

as  far  away, 


12 


And  still  upon  the  orchard  ground,  the  same 

round  shadows  lay. 

Still  chattered  there  the  merry  wren,  the  cheer 
ful  robin  sung, 
The  brook  still  purled  from  woody  glen,  o'er 

which  the  wrild  vine  swung. 
I  lingered  till  the  crimson  clouds,  upon  the 

evening  sky, 
O'erhung  the  hills  as  gloriously  as  in  the  days 

gone  by. 
All  these  are  what  they  were  when  first  these 

pleasant  hills  I  ranged, 
But  faces  that  I  knew  before,  by  time  and  toil 

are  changed; 
Where  youth  and ,  bloom  were  on  the  cheek, 

and  gladness  on  the  brow, 
I  only  meet  the  marks  of  care  and  pain  and 

sorrow  now, 


13 


THE  BLIND  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT. 

"  And  I  went  and  washed,  and  I  received  sight." — John  /'.v,  2. 

When  the  Great  Master  spoke, 
He  touched  his  withered  eyes, 

And  at  one  gleam  upon  him  broke 
The  glad  earth  and  the  skies. 

And  he  saw  the  city's  walls, 
And  king's  and  prophet's  tomb, 

And  mighty  arches  and  vaulted  halls 
And  the  temple's  lofty  dome. 

He  looked  on  the  river's  flood 
And  the  flash  of  mountain  rills, 

And  the  graceful  wave  of  palms  that  stood 
Upon  Judea's  hills. 

He  saw,  on  heights  and  plains. 

Creatures  of  every  race; 
But  a  mighty  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 

When  he  met  the  human  face. 


14 


And  his  virgin  sight  beheld 

The  ruddy  glow  of  even. 
And  the  thousand  shining  orbs  that  filled 

The  azure  depths  of  heaven. 

Though  woman's  voice  before 
Had  cheered  his  gloomy  night, 

To  see  the  angel  form  she  wore 
Made  deeper  the  delight. 

And  his  heart,  at  daylight's  close, 
For  the  bright  world  where  he  trod. 

And  when  the  yellow  morning  rose. 
Gave  speechless  thanks  to  God. 


15 


THE  MOUNTAIN  GRAVEYARD. 

I  know  a  hill  with  a  breast  of  flowers 
Where  the  swallows  play  in  the  summer  hours, 
Where  the  grasshopper  chirps  and  the  wild  bee 

hums, 

And  the  low  of  the  kine  on  the  cool  air  comes, 
And  the  soft  winds  breathe  with  a  whispering 

sigh 

From  the  skirt  of  the  lofty  woodland  nigh. 
There  the  cheerful  sound  of  the  streamlet  rings 
As  it  leaps  away  from  the  place  of  springs; 
The  strawberry  blossoms  in  May  dew  there, 
And  ripens  its  fruit  in  the  summer  air; 
And  the  grey  squirrel  barks  in  the  beechen  wood 
As  he  gathers  the  nuts  for  his  winter  food. 
'Tis  a  spot  where  the  daylight  latest  stays 
And  earliest  comes  with  its  crimson  rays. 
And  life  is  above  where  the  light  winds  go, 
But  the  dead  are  asleep  in  the  earth  below. 
There   are   shrubs   and   wild   briars  springing 

round, 
And  I  know  by  the  stones  and  the  swell  of  the 

ground, 


Where  the  friends  that  have  gone  before  me  lie. 
Each  one  with  his  feet  to  the  eastern  sky; 
Yes.  the  fair  young  child,  with  its  flaxen  hair, 
And  age,  with  the  marks  of  toil  and  care, 
And  youth,  with  its  joys  and  its  hopes  so  bright, 
With  a  blooming  cheek  and  an  eye  of  light. 
And  they  in  the  strength  and  midst  of  life. 
Are  gathered  here  from  earth's  toil  and  strife ; 
And  the  mean  of  earth  and  the  good  and  brave 
Lie  side  by  side  in  the  quiet  grave. 

I  go  to  that  spot  when  the  early  flowers 
Awake  on  these  bright  sunny  hills  of  ours; 
When  the  airs  of  the  south  breathe  over  the 

plain. 

And  the  bluebird  sings  in  the  woods  again; 
When,  waked  by  rains  from  their  winter  rest, 
Brook  calls  to  brook  on  the  mountain's  breast, 
And  the  young  leaves  dance  in  each  passing 

breath, 
I  often  visit  these  haunts  of  death. 

When  the  summer  comes,  with  its  sultry  heat. 
And  fierce  on  the  earth  the  sunbeams  beat; 
When  the  leaf  on  the  poplar's  bough  is  still, 
And  hushed  is  the  voice  of  the  mountain  rill: 


17 


When  the  tall  grass  droops  in  the  torrid  glare, 
And  no  sound  is  abroad  in  the  motionless  air, 
I  wander  there  for  a  breath  of  the  gale 
That's  a  stranger  then  in  my  native  vale. 

When  the  maize  on  the  autumn  hills  is  white, 
And  the  yellow  forests  are  bathed  in  light; 
When  the  sun  looks  down  with  a  milder  ray, 
And  the  dry  leaves  whirl  in  the  gust  away; 
When  the  evening  comes  with  glorious  hues, 
And  the  crimson  clouds  distill  their  dews; 
When  the  winds  of  the  icy  north  are  still, 
I  sometimes  visit  this  lonely  hill. 

I  have  followed  through  winter's  sleety  air 
The  lifeless  form  of  a  parent  there, 
When  the  deep  snows  over  the  mountains  lay, 
And  the  voiceless  streams  flowed  slowly  away. 
Seven  brothers  and  sisters  stood  around 
The  narrow  vault  in  the  frozen  ground; 
With  their  sainted   mother,  her  great  heart 

broke, 

Her  tall  form  bowed  by  the  sudden  stroke. 
And  we  buried  him  there  when  the  north  winds 

blew, 


And  our  tears  fell  fast  like  the  summer  dew, 
And  like  ice  to  our  hearts  the  cold  earth  slid, 
With  a  hollow  sound,  on  his  coffin  lid. 

And  still  as  the  years  of  my  life  depart 
Shall  that  lonely  spot  be  dear  to  my  heart; 
For  many  a  friend  of  my  earlier  days. 
Who  journeyed  with  me  life's  devious  ways, 
There  lies  in  his  long,  long  dreamless  rest, 
With  the  damp  earth  clinging  around  his  breast; 
And  a  voice  comes  up  from  each  grassy  tomb 
As  I  tread  those  paths  in  the  twilight's  gloom, 
That  tells  me  the  hours  of  my  own  brief  day 
Are  swiftly  and  silently  passing  away. 


19 


SONNET. 

Beautiful  streamlet  by  my  dwelling  side, 
I  love  thy  shining  sands,  thy  banks  of  grass; 
I  love  to  see  thy  silver  water  pass, 
Hurrying  beneath  the  willow  boughs  to  hide. 
Thy  nursing  springs  are  in  the  forest  shade, 
Moss-bank  and  rock,  brown  trunk  and  ancient 

tree, 

Woodbirds  and  wild  flowers  are  thy  company, 
Until  thou  glitterest  in  the  open  glade. 
Thou  wert  my  playmate  in  my  early  'days; 
I  built  cascades  and  tiny  bridges  then; 
Now  thoughtfully  on  thy  green  banks  I  gaze, 
And  thy  bright  current,  gushing  through   its 

glen, 

Pure  as  the  air  above  it,  and  as  free. 
And  wish  my  heart  were  void  of  stain  like  thee. 


20 


THE  WANDERER'S  LAMENT. 

0,  for  the  days  of  youth  again. 

The  days  of  peace  and  plenty. 
Before  I  left  my  father's  house, 

When  I  was  one  and  twenty. 

When,  on  the  grass-plot  by  the  door, 

I  sported  with  the  spaniel, 
And  life  went  merry  as  a  brook 

Along  its  stony  channel. 

But  now  to  me  the  times  are  changed, 

And  I  am  sad  and  weary; 
I've  proved  the  world,  the  smiling  world, 

And  found  it  cold  and  dreary. 

I've  wandered  far  upon  the  land, 

And  far  upon  the  ocean, 
When  the  dark  waves  were  temptest-tossed 

In  fierce  and  wild  commotion. 

I've  climbed  the  Andes'  rocky  heights 
And  viewed  the  realms  below  me, 

And  mused  upon  the  loveliest  scenes 
Those  lofty  heights  could  show  me. 


21 


I've  passed  to  earth's  remotest  isles 

Across  the  mighty  waters; 
I've  greeted  Asia's  wildest  sons, 

And  seen  her  fairest  daughters. 

When  we  had  spread  our  swelling  sail, 
And  homeward  were  returning, 

The  light  of  hope  within  my  breast, 
Was  warm  and  brightly  burning. 

I  clomb  the  mast,  I  strained  my  eye, 
To  catch  the  distant  landing, 

The  misty  mountain  and  the  wood, 
Upon  its  summit  standing. 

And  when  they  met  my  sight  at  dawn, 
What  pleasures  thrilled  my  bosom ; 

Gay-colored  woods  before  me  lay, 
Like  one  unbounded  blossom. 

And  I  have  reached  my  childhood's  home 

And  found  it  all  deserted; 
Have  wept  beside  its  roofless  walls 

Like  "one  that's  broken  hearted. 

'Tis  fourteen  summers  since  I  left 
The  birth-place  of  my  fathers, 

Where  now  his  wreath  of  wilding  flowers 
The  truant  school-boy  gathers. 


22 


The  wild  brier  and  thy  cherry  tree 

Grow  in  the  ruined  cellar, 
And  in  its  wall  the  cricket  chirps, 

A  solitary  dweller. 

'Tis  noon,  calm  noon — the  yellow  woods 
In  Autumn  light  are  sleeping; 

As  if  for  playmates  passed  away, 
Yon  little  brook  is  weeping. 

All,  all  is  changed,  save  the  brown  hills,- 
They  hold  their  wonted  station ; 

But  in  my  aching  bosom  reigns 
A  deeper  desolation. 

0  God!  I  live  without  a  friend, 
A  dreary  world  before  me; 

My  parents'  eyes  are  closed  in  death. 
That  bent  so  kindly  o'er  me. 

My  hair  is  grey — 'tis  early  grey— 
'Tis  grey  with  toil  and  sorrow; 

My  cheek  is  hollow,  and  my  brow 
Is  ploughed  with  many  a  furrow. 

Twilight  is  deepening,  and  the  hills 
Look  distant,  dim,  and  sober; 

I'm  sitting  by  my  ruined  home 
In  bleak  and  brown  October. 


23 


All  sounds  of  day  have  left  the  air, 

The  grass  with  frost  is  hoary, 
And  I  have  staid  alone  to  write 

This  brief  but  rueful  story;— 

Staid,  till  the  winds  have  chilled  my  blood. 

On  these  dim  hills  benighted; 
Staid,  but  no  friend  my  coming  waits, 

No  hearth  for  me  is  lighted. 


24 


A  NIGHT  SCENE. 

It  is  deep  midnight;  on  the  verdant  hills 
In  beauty  spread,  the  broad  white  moonlight 

lies. 

No  sound  is  heard  save  that  the  grey  owl  hoots, 
At  intervals,  in  the  old  mossy  wood. 
Or  save  the  rustle  of  the  aspen  leaves, 
That  ceaseless  turn  upon  their  slender  steins, 
When  not  a  breath  is  felt  in  all  the  heaven. 
Standing  upon  an  eminence,  I  see 
The  haunts  of  men  around.     The  world  is  still. 
The  busy  and  the  bustling  are  at  rest: 
Their  mingled  voices  do  not  fill  the  air, 
As  when  I  tread  these  haunts  at  noon  of  day. 
The  birds  are  silent  now,  and  the  tired  beasts 
Are  slunk  to  rest.     Almost  beneath  my  feet 
Stand  cottages,  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
And  prouder  mansions  of  the  rich  and  great. 
The  cottager  and  all  his  little  ones 
Are  slumbering  now;  theirs  is  a  sweeter  sleep 
Than  luxury  and  wealth  can  ever  give. 
Not  distant  far,  upon  a  gentle  swell, 


With  its  background  of  orcharding  and  wood, 
And  more  immediate  circle  of  green  trees, 
My   much   loved   home,   my    native    dwelling 

stands. 

Its  roof  is  glimmering  in  the  white  moonshine. 
And  all  its  inmates,  save  myself,  at  rest. 
I  see  the  little  brook  meandering  there, 
But  do  not  hear  its  voice;  the  trembling  light 
Of  the  full  moon  falls  on  its  shifting  waves, 
And  is  thrown  back  in  flashes  on  my  eye. 
How  sweet  the  stillness  of  this  midnight  hour! 
It  banishes  the  cares  of  busy  life. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Mightiest  is  abroad, 
It  fills  the  boundless  air,  the  spreading  wood, 
The  wilds,  the  lonely  deserts  of  the  earth. 
And  all  her  populous  realms. 

In  a  few  hours, 

The  rosy  morn  will  break  upon  the  hills, 
And  all  these  sleepers  start  to  life  again; 
The  gay  to  spend  another  day  of  mirth. 
The  housewife  to  her  toil,  the  laboring  man 
To  his  accustomed  task.     The  little  birds 
That  perch  in  silence  on  these  lofty  trees, 
Shall  then  break  forth  in  songs,  wild  woodland 

songs, 


Such  as  were  chanted  on  the  sixth  day's  morn 
In  Eden's  bowers,  to  hail  the  birth  of  man. 
And   Summer's   morning   wind   shall    breathe 

again, 

And  toss  the  dew-drops  from  the  forest  leaves, 
And  all  this  solemn  stillness  be  exchanged 
For  murmur  and  for  motion. 

Standing  here, 

And  looking  on  this  varied  scenery,  spread 
So  beautiful  around,  I  feel  a  power, 
As  of  the  Great  Omnipotent  upon  me. 
That  calls  my  heart  to  worship;  1  will  kneel 
Here  bj*  the  side  of  this  o'erhanging  wood. 
And  like  the  patriarchs  of  ancient  time, 
Who  worshipped  on  the  mountains,  offer  up 
Beneath  heaven's   mighty    arch,   my    humble 

hymn 
To  the  great  Keeper  of  the  sleeping  world. 


27 


HYMN. 

Almighty!    Thou   didst   stretch   abroad   the 

heavens ; 
Thy  hand  planted  their  depths  with  stars,  and 

set 

The  glorious  sun  eternal  in  the  midst, 
And  gave  them  all  their  courses  through  the  air. 
Thy  breath  rolled  the  deep  darkness  from  the 

face 

Of  the  beginning;  light  and  life  of  Thee 
Were  born,  and  still  do  emanate  from  Thee. 
To  all  that  is,  Thou  givest  life,  and  shed'st 
Thy  glorious  light  on  all.     And  thou  didst  lay 
Earth's  deep  and  firm  foundations:  and  didst 

spread 

O'er  all  her  breast  health,  beauty  and  deep  joy. 
Thou  didst  uplift  the  morning;  and  the  night 
Calm,  silent,  is  an  ordinance  of  Thine. 
Nothing  is  so  minute,1  but  speaks  Thy  power; 
Each  opening  flower  proclaims  infinity, 
And  every  stirring  leaf,  a  God.     This  earth, 
This  might}'  globe  upon  its  centre  turns, 
And  gives  a  glimpse  of  Thine  eternal  works, 


A  narrow  glimpse  that  shows  superior  worlds 
As  specks,  and  distant  suns  as  points.     How  vast. 
How  beautiful,  are  all  thy  works,  0  God ! 
This  silent  hour  of  midnight  speaks  of  Thee, 
And  nature's  loveliness  proclaims  Thee  near. 
Stretched  far  around,  the  woody  mountains  lie, 
Upheaved  and  motionless — banks  of  white  mist 
Rest  sweetly  in  the  moonlight  o'er  the  vales. 
And  the  calm  river  tells  a  peaceful  tale 
As  it  moves  oceanward.     The  winds  are  not. 
Heaven's  wide  blue  arch  is  noiseless  as  the  grave, 
And  peace,  deep  peace,  is  written  on  the  scene. 

The  dead  in  yonder  bank  sleep  quietly. 
For  thou,  0  God,  dost  keep  them,  and  thine  eye 
Is  ever  on  their  dark  and  still  abodes. 

The  oppressor  and  the  oppressed  are  gathered 

there, 

The  rich  and  poor  on  the  same  level  rest, 
And  friends  and  foes  lie  nerveless  side  by  side. 
The  same  green  turf  is  on  the  breasts  of  all, 
And  the  same  dreamless  sleep  their  common  lot. 
Ah!  who  can  look  upon  their  silent  tombs 
Where  rest  the  generations  past  away, 
And  read  not  there  the  frailty  of  mankind; 
Read  that  his  life's  a  vapor,  fading  fast, 
That  honor  and  distinction  are  a  name, 


And  pomp  and  riches  but  a  fleeting  shade. 
Lo!  man  comes  forth  in  glory!  walks  the  earth, 
Pride  kindles  in  his  eye,  and  joy  and  hope 
And  love  sit  mantling  on  his  youthful  cheek; 
An  hour  glides  by,  and  he  is  with  the  dead. 
Thou  in  his  mid  career  dost  smite  him  down, 
And  lay  his  expectations  in  the  dust. 
Thy  works,  0  Father,  teach  me  that  thou  art! 
Mute  nature  has  a  voice  that  tells  of  thee: 
And  may  I  learn  a  lesson  from  these  graves, 
And  be  this  spot  to  me  a  Monitor 
To  warn  me  of  my  end,  to  guard  my  path, 
And  teach  me  so  to  keep  my  wayward  heart, 
That  when  the  hour  of  my  departure  comes, 
I  bow  my  head  and  go  to  Thee  in  peace. 


30 


THE  HERMIT  THRUSH. 

When  June's  dark  foliage  clothes  the  forest 

boughs 

Far  in  the  shady  depths  the  hermit  thrush 
Pipes  his  sweet  lay,  that  through  the  woodland 

aisles 

Rings  with  Seraphic  melody.     No  song 
In  all  our  range  of  wild  wood  charms  like  his. 
Shyest  of  birds,  hermit  indeed  is  he; 
His  slender  form,  glancing  from  spray  to  spray 
Even  by  sharpest  eye  is  seldom  seen. 
He  shuns  all  common  haunts,  and  seeks  afar, 
The  loneliest  spot  amid  the  thickest  shade; 
And  flies  from  the  intrusive  step  of  man, 
However  stealthy  his  approach  may  be. 
Sweetest,  far  sweetest,  is  his  voice  to  me, 
At  the  soft  hour  of  twilight,  when  the  world 
Has  hushed  her  din  of  voices,  and  her  sons 
Are  gathering  to  their  slumbers  from  their  toil. 
I  sit  whole  hours  upon  a  moss-grown  stone, 
In  some  sequestered  spot,  and  hear  his  lay, 
Unmindful  of  the  things  that  near  me  pass, 
Till  all  at  once,  as  the  dim  shades  of  night 


31 


Fall  thicker  on  the  lessening  landscape  round, 
He  ceases,  and  my  reverie  is  broke. 

One  summer  eve,  at  twlight's  quiet  hour, 
After  a  sultry  day  spent  at  my  books, 
I  slipped  forth  from  my  study,  to  enjoy 
The  cool  of  evening.    Leaning  on  my  arm 
Was  one  I  loved,  a  girl  of  gentle  mould  : 
She  had  sweet  eyes,  and  lips  the  haunt  of  smiles, 
And  long  dark  locks,  that  hung  in  native  curls 
Around  her  snowy  bosom.    The  light  wind 
Tossed  them  aside,  to  kiss  her  lily  neck, 
Gently,  as  he  were  conscious  what  he  touched. 
Her  step  was  light,  light  as  the  breeze  that 

fanned 

Her  blushing  cheek;  gay  was  her  heart,for  youth 
And  innocence  are  ever  gay;  her  form 
Was  stately  as  an  angel's,  and  her  brow 
White  as  the  mountain  snow;  her  voice  was 

sweet, 

Sweet  as  the  chiding  of  the  brook  that  plays 
Along  its  pebbly  channel.     Ruddy  clouds 
Were  gathered  east  and  south,  high  piled  and 

seemed 
Like  rubby  temples  in  a  sapphire  sky. 

The  west  was  bright  with  daylight  still:  no 
moon, 


32 


No  stars  were  seen,  save  the  bright  star  of  love, 
That  sailed  alone  in  heaven.  'Twas  in  this  walk 
We  heard  the  hermit  thrush  in  a  lone  wood 
Near  to  the  wayside,  and  we  sat  us  down 
Upon  a  mossy  bank,  to  list  awhile 
To  that  sweet  song.    Peaceful  before  us  lay 
Woodlands,  and  orchards  white  with   vernal 

bloom, 

And  flowering  shrubs  encircling  happy  homes, 
And  broad  green   meads  with    wild    flowers 

sprinkled  o'er  : 

The  scent  of  these  came  on  the  gentle  wind, 
Sweet  as  the  spicy  breath  of  Araby. 
The  smoke  above  the  clustering  roofs  curled  blue 
On  the  still  air;  the  shout  of  running  streams 
Came  from  a  leafy  thicket  by  our  side  ; 
And  that  lone  woodbird  in  the  wood  above, 
Singing  his  evening  hymn,  perfected  all. 
The  hour,  the  season,  sounds,  and  scenery, 
Mingling  like  these,  and  sweetly  pleasing  all, 
Made  the  full   heart   o'erflow.     That  maiden 

wept— 

Even  at  the  sweetness  of  that  song  she  wept. 
How  sweet  the  tears  shed  by  such  eyes  for  joy! 


83 


THE  EMIGRANT. 

My  native  hills!  far,  far  away, 
Your  tops  in  living  green  are  bright; 

And  meadow,  glade,  and  forest  gray, 
Bask  in  the  long,  long  summer  light; 

And  blossoms  still  are  gaily  set 

By  shaded  fount  and  rivulet. 

Oh,  that  these  feet  again  might  tread 
The  slopes  around  my  native  home, 
With  grass  and  mingled  blossoms  spread, 

Where  cool  the  western  breezes  come 
To  fan  the  fainting  traveller's  brow- 
Alas!  I  almost  feel  them  now. 

Would  that  my  eyes  again  might  see 
Those  planted  fields  and  forests  deep— 

The  tall  grass  waving  like  a  sea— 
The  white  flocks  scattered  o'er  the  steep- 

The  dashing  brooks — and  o'er  them  high 

The  clear  vault  of  my  native  sky. 


34 


Fair  are  the  scenes  that  round  me  lie: 
Bright  shines  the  great  earth-gladdening  sun. 

And  sweetly  crimsoned  is  the  sky 
At  twilight,  when  the  day  is  done: 

And  the  same  stars  look  down  at  even 

That  glittered  in  my  native  heaven. 

On  wide  savannas,  round  me  spread, 
A  thousand  blossoms  meet  mine  eye ; 

The  wild  rose  meekly  bows  its  head, 
As  balmy  winds  go  sweeping  by; 

And  wild  deer  on  the  green  bluffs  play. 

That  rise  in  dimness  far  away. 

Majestic  are  these  streams,  that  glide 
O'ershadowed  by  continuous  wood, 

Save  where  the  long  glade  opens  wide. 
Where  erst  the  Indian  hamlet  stood; 

But  sweeter  streams,  with  sweeter  song. 

In  home's  green  valley  dance  along. 

And  there,  when  summer's  heaven  is  clear. 
Sweet  voices  echo  through  the  air; 

For  children's  feet  press  softly  near, 
And  joyous  hearts  are  beating  there; 

While  I,  afar  from  home  and  rest, 

Thread  the  vast  rivers  of  the  west. 


35 


Oft,  in  my  dreams,  before  me  rise 
Fair  visions  of  those  scenes  so  dear — 

The  cottage  home,  the  vale,  the  skies, 
And  rippling  murmurs  greet  mine  ear. 

Like  sound  of  unseen  brook,  that  falls 

Through  the  long  mine's  unlighted  halls. 

As  down  the  deep  Ohio's  stream 

We  glide  before  the  whispering  wind. 

Though  all  is  lovely  as  a  dream. 

My  wandering  thoughts  still  turn  behind- 

Turn  to  the  loved,  the  blessed  shore, 

Where  dwell  the  friends  J  meet  no  more. 

But  were  there  here  one  heart  to  bless, 

That  beat  in  unison  with  mine- 
One  voice  to  cheer  my  loneliness, 

(And  that,  my  Laura,  sure  were  thine)— 
My  thoughts  should  hardly  turn  again 
To  home's  green  hills  and  shady  glen. 


36 


INDIAN  SUMMER. 

That  soft  autumnal  time 

Is  gone,  that  sheds  upon  the  naked  scene 
Charms  only  known  in  this  our  northern  clime, 

Bright  seasons  far  between. 

The  woodland  foliage  now 

Is  gathered  by  the  wild  November  blast; 
Even  the  thick  leaves  upon  the  oaken  bough, 

Are  fallen,  to  the  last. 

The  mighty  vines  that  round 

The  forest  trunks  their  slender  branches  bind, 
Their  crimson  foliage  shaken  to  the  ground, 

Swing  naked  to  the  wind. 

Some  living  green  remains, 

By  the  clear  brook  that  shines  along  the  lawn, 
But  the  sere  grass  stands  white  o'er  all  the  plains, 

And  the  bright  flowers  are  gone. 

But  these,  these  are  thy  charms- 
Mild  airs,  and  tempered  light  upon  the  lea. 

And  the  year  holds  no  time  within  his  arms. 
That  doth  resemble  thee. 


37 


The  sunny  noon  is  thine, 

Soft,  golden,  noiseless  as  the  dead  of  night, 
And  hues  that  in  the  flushed  horizon  shine. 

At  eve  and  early  light. 

The  year's  last,  loveliest  smile, 

Thou  com'st  to  fill  with  hope  the  human  heart, 
And  strengthen  it  to  bear  the  storms  awhile, 

Till  winter's  frowns  depart. 

O'er  the  wide  plains  that  lie 

A  desolate  scene,  the  fires  of  autumn  spread, 
And  on  the  blue  walls  of  the  starry  sky, 

A  strange  wild  glimmer  shed. 

Far  in  a  sheltered  nook, 

I've  met,  in  these  calm  days,  a  smiling  flower, 
A  lonely  aster,  trembling  by  a  brook, 

At  noon's  warm  quiet  hour. 

And  something  told  my  mind 

That  should  old  age  to  childhood  call  me  back, 
Some  sunny  days  and  flowers  I  still  might  find 

Along  life's  weary  track. 


THE  NEW  ENGLAND  PILGRIM'S  FUNERAL. 

It  was  a  wintry  scene; 

The  hills  were  whitened  o'er. 
And  the  chill  north  wind  was  blowing  keen  i 

Along  the  rocky  shore. 

Gone  was  the  wild  bird's  lay. 

That  the  summer  forests  fills: 
And  the  voice  of  the  stream  had  passed  away 

From  its  course  among  the  hills. 

And  the  low  sun  coldly  smiled 

Through  the  boughs  of  the  ancient  wood. 
When  a  hundred  souls,  sire,  wife  and  child, 

Around  a  coffin  stood. 

And  they  raised  it  gently  up, 

And  through  the  untrodden  snow 

They  bore  it  away,  with  a  solemn  step. 
To  a  woody  vale  belowj 

And  grief  was  in  each  eye, 
As  they  moved  toward  the  spot: 


And  brief  k>w  speech,  and  tear,  and  sigh. 
Told  that  a  friend  was  not. 

As  they  laid  his  cold  form  low. 

In  the  dark  and  narrow  cell; 
Heavy  the  mingled  earth  and  snow 

Upon  his  coffin  fell. 

Weeping  they  passed  away 

And  left  him  there  alone, 
With  no  mark  to  tell  where  the  dead  friend  lay. 

But  the  mossy  forest  stone. 

When  the  winter  storms  were  gone, 
And  the  strange  birds  sang  around, 

Green  grass  and  violets  sprung  upon 
That  spot  of  holy  ground. 

And  o'er  him  ancient  trees 

Their  branches  waved  on  high. 
And  rustled  music  in  the  breeze 

That  wandered  through  the  sky. 

When  these  were  overspread 
With  the  hues  that  autumn  gave, 

They  bowed  them  to  the  wind,  and  shed 
Their  leaves  upon  his  grave. 


40 


And  centuries  are  flown, 

Since  they  laid  his  relics  low;  [strown 

And   his  bones  were  mouldered  to  dust,  and 

To  the  breezes  long  ago. 

Those  woods  are  perished  now. 

And  that  humble  grave  forgot; 
And  the  yeoman  sings  as  he  drives  his  plough 

O'er  that  once  sacred  spot. 

And  they  who  laid  him  there— 

That  sad  and  suffering  train, 
Now  sleep  in  death — to  tell  us  where 

No  lettered  stones  remain. 

Their  mighty  works  shall  last. 

Their  memory  remain 
While  years  consume  the  structures  vast 

Of  Egypt's  storied  plain. 


41 


SONNET. 

'T  is  Autumn,  and  my  steps  have  led  me  far 
To  a  wild  hill,  that  overlooks  a  land 
Wide-spread  and  beautiful.     A  single  star 
Sparkles  new-set  in  heaven.    O'er  its  bright  sand 
The  streamlet  slides  with  mellow  tones  away; 
The  West  is  crimson  with  retiring  day, 
And  the  North  gleams  with  its  own  native  light. 
Below,  in  autumn  green,  the  meadows  lie, 
And  through  green  banks  the  river  wanders  by, 
And  the  wide  woods  with   autumn   hues  are 

bright: 

Bright — -but  of  fading  brightness! — soon  is  past 
That  dream-like  glory  of  the  painted  wood; 
And  pitiless  decay  o'ertakes,  as  fast, 
The  pride  of  men,  the  beauteous,  the  great,  and 

good. 


42 


SONNET. 

There  is  a  magic  in  the  moon's  mild  ray,— 
What  time  she  softly  climbs  the  evening  sky. 
And  sitteth  with  the  silent  stars  on  high,— 
That  charms  the  pang  of  earth-born  grief  away. 
I  raise  my  eye  to  the  blue  depths  above. 
And  worship  Him  whose  power,  pervading  space, 
Holds  those  bright  orbs  at  peace  in  his  embrace. 
Yet  comprehends  earth's  lowliest  things  in  love. 
Oft,  when  that  silent  moon  was  sailing  high. 
I've  left  my  youthful  sports  to  gaze;  and  now. 
When  time  with  graver  lines  has  mark'd  my 

brow, 

Sweetly  she  shines  upon  my  sober'd  eye. 
0,  may  the  light  of  truth,  my  steps  to  guide. 
Shine  on  my  eve  of  life— shine  soft,  and  long 

abide. 


43 


LAMENT  OF  THE  CORSAIR'S  WIFE. 

'Twas  morning  over  Cuba's  hills,  and  from  her 
woods  was  heard, 

And  from  the  leafy  copses  nigh,  the  song  of 
many  a  bird; 

The  mountain  tops  with  crimson  light  were 
blushing  all  around, 

And  the  early  dew  was  glistening  o'er  all  the 
blooming  ground. 

Wild  colts  were  sporting  on  the  plains  in  free 
dom,  unconfined. 

And  melody  from  mountain  brooks  came  on  the 
scented  wind; 

The  winds  that  kissed  the  lovely  scene  and 
spread  its  fragrance  wide, 

Showed  the  white  lining  of  the  leaves  along  the 
forest  side. 

There,  as  I  cheered  my  plodding  mule  along  the 
rugged  way, 

Sung  at  a  shaded  cottage  door,  I  heard  this  ten 
der  lay: 

"Come  back,  thou  partner  of  my  youth;  come 
back  again  to  me,— 

Why  hast  thou  left  thy  cottage  side  to  roam  the 
trackless  sea? 


44 


The  ruddy  light  that  shines  at  morn,  and  fills 

my  leafy  bower, 
And  comes  with  crimson  hues  again  at  twilight's 

quiet  hour, 
Is  sweeter  to  my  fading  eye  than  all  the  shining 

store 
That  thou   canst  bring  from  ocean  ships  to 

glisten  on  the  shore. 
Thou  didst  not  talk  of  cruel  war  when  first  I 

met  thy  look, 

Where  woven  boughs  hung  darkly  o'er  my  child 
hood's  merry  brook; 
And  when  our  nuptial  vow  was  made,  I  did  not 

dream  of  this, 
For  thou  didst  tell  of  many  years  of  innocence 

and  bliss 
Spent  lovingly  within  our  bower  of  olive  and  of 

palm, 
Where  the  green  slope  looks  down  upon  the 

ocean's  glassy  calm. 
Thy  laughing  boy,  who  played  and  smiled,  and 

prattled  on  thy  knee, 
Leaves  the  young  spaniel  by  the  door,  and  comes 

and  talks  of  thee. 
0,  come  from  roaming  on  the  main,  thy  glad 

return  I'll  greet, 


45 


And  our  young  boy  shall  bound  away  thy  com 
ing  steps  to  meet. 
The  smile  that  lights  his  clear  dark  eye  and 

dimples  in  his  face, 
Shall  tell  thee  with  how  glad  a  heart  he  gives 

his  still  embrace ; 
And  he  shall  climb  thy  knee  again  to  listen  to 

thy  voice, 
And  its  remembered  tones  shall  make  his  little 

heart  rejoice. 
0,  didst  thou  know  the  grief  I  feel,  and  my 

heart's  loneliness, 

How  soon  would  thy  returning  steps  my  hum 
ble  cottage  bless. 
Hours  pass,  and  days,  and  weary  months,  and 

years  glide  slowly  by: 
I  gaze,  but  still  thy  coining  form  meets  not  my 

longing  eye. 
But  still  I  know  that  thou  wilt  come,  and  joy 

shall  bless  the  hour 
In  which  thy  well-known  footsteps  press  the 

green  turf  of  my  bower; 
If  cheerful  smiles  have  left  thy  cheek  amid  the 

the  throng  of  men, 
To  see  thy  home,  and  lovely  boy,  shall  call 

them  back  again." 


46 


SONNET  TO — 


Bold  champion  of  the  poor,  a  thorny  road 
Before  thee  lies:  for  thou  hast  bared  thy  breast 
And  nerved  thine  arm  to  lift  the  heavy  load, 
And  break   the   chains   from  limbs   too   long 

oppressed. 

Tyrants  and  custom's  dupes  shall  strive  in  vain; 
Truth  wields  a  weapon  mightier  far  than  they, 
Huge  bolts  and  gates  of  brass  are  rent  in  twain, 
Touched  by  the  magic  of  her  gentle  sway. 
Hold  then  thy  course,  "nor  bate-one  jot  of  hope/' 
Lo!  the  day  dawns  along  our  eastern  shore; 
Soon  shall  the  night  of  prejudice  be  o'er, 
And  a  bright  morning  give  thee  freer  scope 
To  rouse  thy  countrymen  to  deeds  of  good, 
And  just  and  equal  laws  shall  save  the  land 

from  blood. 


47 


SONG  OF  THE  CHAMOIS- HUNTERS. 

i. 

Our  home  is  on  the  mountain's, 

Where  the  pure  winds  ever  flow, 
Where  torrents,  bursting  from  the  rocks, 

Haste  to  the  vales  below. 
We  climb  the  high  and  rugged  cliff 

Before  the  blush  of  dawn, 
And  thread  the  path  along  the  dells, 

Where  hides  the  chamois  fawn. 
All  day  we  toil,  till  daylight  fades 

Along  the  ruddy  west, 
And  then  we  light  our  watchfires, 

Above  the  eagle's  nest. 

n. 

0  !  'tis  a  fearful  pleasure 

On  dizzy  heights  to  stand; 
To  tread  the  long  and  narrow  pass, 

Scarce  broader  than  your  hand; 
To  hang  upon  the  bare  rock's  side, 

Wide  rolling  woods  below, 


Where  in  their  beds  the  rushing  streams 

Are  hardly  heard  to  flow. 
We  climb  the  glaciers  slippery  steep, 

And,  with  a  wild  delight, 
We  leap  the  frightful  chasm, 

Whose  depths  are  black  as  night. 

in. 

And  terrible  the  tempest 

That  comes  at  midnight  there, 
When  lightnings  fire  the  tossing  clouds 

And  all  the  upper  air; 
And  awful  is  the  thunders  voice, 

When  falls  the  knotted  oak, 
And  rocks  upon  the  icy  peaks 

Are  shivered  by  the  stroke. 
The  blood  runs  chill  as  onward  sweep 

The  tempest  and  the  flood, 
And  the  whirlwind  strong  and  mighty, 

Uproots  the  ancient  wood. 

IV. 

How  glorious  is  the  morning 

That  gilds  the  mountain's  breast, 
When  stillness  wraps  the  crimson  sky. 


49 


And  earth  is  all  at  rest: 
When  o'er  the  peaceful  vales  below 

The  mists  in  white  waves  sleep, 
Far  stretching  to  the  gazer's  eye 

An  ocean  wide  and  deep; 
And  passing  lovely  is  the  hour 

That  brings  the  close  of  day, 
When  hues  of  living  splendor 

Grow  soft  and  fade  away. 

v. 

Sweet,  sweet  is  our  returning 

When  the  hunting  days  are  done, 
When  down  we  haste  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

With  the  spoil  our  hands  have  won; 
We  spy  our  cottage  in  the  vale, 

Where  peace  and  gladness  are, 
Our  children  cheer  us  on  the  rocks, 

And  beckon  from  afar; 
Their  bosoms  thrill  with  wild  delight 

As  down  the  steep  we  come, 
And  joyful  is  the  meeting 

When  we  are  safe  at  home. 


50 


VI. 

0!  idle  were  a  being 

Within  the  city's  walls, 
And  cold  to  us  their  worship  seems 

Who  pray  in  gilded  halls; 
The  earth's  wild  liberty  is  ours, 

Where'er  the  winds  may  blow, 
These  vales  so  quiet  and  so  green, 

These  mountains  clad  with  snow; 
Our  temple  is  the  wide  blue  sky, 

Our  anthems  are  the  deep 
And  solemn  voice  of  night  winds 

That  through  the  forest  sweep. 


'  51 


WINTER. 

Tt  was  a  calm  and  sunny  winter  day, 

And  tinged  with  amber  was  the  sky  at  even; 

The  fleecy  clouds  at  length  had  rolled  away, 
And  lay  in  furrows  on  the  eastern  heavens; 

The  moon  arose,  and  shed  a  glimmering  ray, 

And  round  her  orb  a  misty  circle  lay. 

The  hoar-frost  glittered  on  the  naked  heath. 

The  roar  of  distant  winds  was  loud  and  deep, 
The  dry  leaves  rustled  in  each  passing  breath 

And  the  gay  world  was  lost  in  quiet  sleep. 
Such  was  the  time  when, on  the  landscape  brown. 
Through  a  December  air  the  snows  came  down. 

The  morning  came,  the  dreary  morn  at  last, 
And  showed  the  whitened  waste.     The  shiv 
ering  herd 

Lowed  on  the  hoary  meadow-ground,  and  fast 
Fell  the  light  flakes  upon  the  earth  unstirred; 

The  forest  firs  with  glittering  snows  'oerlaid, 

Stood  like  hoar  priests  in  robes  of  white  arrayed. 


52 


I  look  forth  from  my  lattice    The  wide  air 
Is  filled  with  falling  flakes;  around,  the  scene 

Lies  in  unvaired  whitness  all,  save  where 
The  autumn  grain  peeps  out  with  living  green. 

Or  save  the  dry  leaves  from  the.  forest  cast, 

And  withered  flower-stalks  trembling  in  the 
blast. 

0,  Winter !  thou  art  welcome  ;  thou  to  me 

Art  a  bestower  of  joy  and  guiltless  mirth  ; 
Thou  bringest  many  an  eve  of  social  glee 
When  dear  friends  gather  round  the  blazing 

hearth, 
And  childhood's  merry  laugh,  and  youth's  glad 

smile, 
The  lingering  hours  of  many  a  day  beguile. 

The  blast  that  sweeps  the  upland,  the  deep  sigh 
Sent  through   the   rocking   forest,    and   the 

frown 

Of  struggling  tempests  that  o'erveil  the  sky 
In  gloomy  darkness  when  the  snow  comes 

down, 

Have  all  a  voice  for  me,  which  reaches  deep 
Where  the  strong  passions  of  my  bosom  sleep. 


53 


Oh,  many  an  eve  on  wild  New  England's  hills, 
When  the  full  moon  shone  on  the  glittering 

snow, 

When  the  keen  frosts  had  chained  the  moun 
tain  rills. 
And  the  deep  streams  no  more  were  heard 

to  flow, 

Have  I  been  forth  with  school-mates  at  my  play. 
And  frolicked  many  a  joyous  hour  away. 

Ah !  those  were  glorious  seasons.  Then  the  hours 
On  silent,  silken  pinions  sped  away: 

My  feet  trod  lightly  on  life's  morning  flowers; 
My  voice  was  with  my  young  heart  ever  gay. 

No  sorrow  then  had  stained  my  cheek  with  tears, 

But  joy  and  sunshine  filled  the  gliding  years. 

Sweet  are  those  recollections  of  the  past; 

And  with  deep  pleasure  back  to  mind  I  bring 
The  golden  dreams  of  boyhood's  scenes,  that  cast 

Hues  of  romance  o'er  life's  resplendent  spring; 
For  as  I  summon  up  the  vanished  train, 
Half  do  1  live  those  seasons  o'er  again. 

And  still  the  hours  of  winter  evening  come 
With  a  glad  welcoming,  though  fast  they  fly; 


54 


Not  the  gay  Spring,  with  all  its  light  and  bloom, 
Nor  Summer's  fruits,  nor  Autumn's  golden 
sky, 

Nor  woods  of  many  hues,  a  princely  show. 
Can  thrill  my  bosom  with  a  warmer  glow. 

Then  come,  ye  biting  frosts,  and  let  the  roar 
Of  the  wild  winds  resound  through  wood  and 

glen. 

And  mountain  waves  o'erleap  the  rocky  shore, 
And  storms  come  down  and  darkness  brood 

again ; 

O'er  the  wide  waste  bring  all  your  train  along, 
And  thrill  my  bosom  with  your  mighty  song. 


55 


THE  BROOK  WALK. 

My  son !  now  thou  has  reached  thy  thirteenth 

year; 

Thy  childhood's  yellow  hair  upon  thy  brow 
Is  darkening  with  thy  growth,  and  thy  young 

mind 

Has  gained  maturity  for  sober  thought, 
Thy  foot  a  firmness  for  so  long  a  toil; 
Come  walk  with  me  among  the  winding  hills, 
And  trace  this  mountain  river  far  away. 
Bright  is  the  day,  the  crystal  heaven  looks  glad, 
And  autumn  rests  upon  the  colored  woods 
In  deep  and  silent  glory.     As  thou  goest. 
Let  thy  young  mind  be  open  to  receive 
Instruction  from  the  fair  and  ample  book 
Of  nature.     Let  thine  eye  be  quick  to  scan 
Her  rich  and  varied  beauty,  that  thy  heart 
May  get  a  goodly  lesson  of  deep  truth 
That  shall  be  with  thee  till  thy  life  shall  end; 
And  that  thy  hoary  hairs,  if  thou  should'st  tread 
The  cold,  dull  ways  of  age,  may  be  a  crown 
Of  glory  on  thy  head.     Through  this  sere  mead 


56 


The  unshaded  stream  runs  glimmering  in  the 

sun 

Without  a  flower  to  grace  its  winding  brink. 
Save  the  blue  aster.     Short  the  season  since 
These  banks  were  thick  with  violets,  the  tall 

grass 

Waved  in  the  summer  wind,  the  robin  sung 
His  love-song  in  the  shrubby  dells  around, 
And  brooding  ground-bird  from  her  nest  uprose.  - 
Now  all  is  changed!  but  'tis  a  pleasant  thing. 
When  nature  round  is  fading  into  age, 
That  some  bright  tokens  of  her  youth  remain; 
It  seems  a  strife  betwixt  the  delicate  flowers, 
And  frosts  and  tempests  of  the  wintry  year. 
The  stooping  forest  now  invites  our  steps: 
We  enter  where  between  two  jutting  rocks 
The  river  breaks  into  the  open  glade. 
How  changed  from  summer's  deep  and  massy 

.  shade. 

So  grateful  in  its  time!     Not  less  so  now 
The  tempered  light  that  sleeps  on  all  the  ground. 
The  shadows  of  the  trees  are  motionless: 
The  fallen  leaves  stir  not;  and  those  which  fall 
With  a  faint  rustle,  whirling  meet  the  ground. 
How  innocent  is  Nature!     Her  wide  realms 
Are  passionless  and  pure.     No  battle  steed 


57 


Tramps  o'er  these  wood-paths;  here  no  warrior 

armed 

With  glistening  steel  and  glancing  plume  is  seen ; 
No  petty  strife  'twixt  man  and  man  are  heard; 
But  all  is  peace  and  innocence  and  love. 
The  quiet  flocks  and  herds  around  us  graze, 
And  the  wild  dwellers  of  the  forest  keep 
Each  in  the  sphere  that  God  designed  for  him; 
Therefore,  when  thou  art  weary  of  thy  toil, 
Or  if  the  wrongs  of  men  in  after  years 
Upon  thy  head  weigh  heavily,  and  bow 
Thy  spirit,  come  to  these  pure,  quiet  shades, 
And  peace  shall  come  to  thee.  and  bless  thy  heart, 
And  in  the  bosom  of  the  lonely  vale, 
Where  busy  life  intrudes  not,  thou  mayest  learn 
A  deep  philosophy,  and  gather  there 
The  spirit  of  a  calm  divinity, 
Purer  and  holier  than  e'er  was  taught 
In  cloistered  cell. 

Trace  back  the  thread  of  time 
In  thine  imagination!  trace  it  back 
Even  to  tlie  far  beginning,  when  the  earth 
Rose  out  of  chaos,  and  the  hills  grew  green, 
And  forests  budded  in  the  blue  sky  first, 
And  primal  man  went  forth  by  hill  and  stream 


And  peopled  the  fair  bosom  of  the  earth. 
Up  the  dim  aisles  of  the  departed  years, 
A  solemn  voice  shall  come  bearing  the  tales 
Of  the  past  generations — tales  of  war, 
And  death,  and  love,  and  pleasure's  giddy  dance. 
Perhaps  this  sloping  mount,  with  broken  rocks 
All  scattered  o'er,  where,  in  his  mossy  robe, 
Sits  old  Decay,  hoary  with  lapse  of  years, 
Was  once  the  site  of  a  forgotten  town, 
Where,  in  high  halls,  the  merry  dance  went 

round, 

And  lovers  sighed;  and  gathered  there  the  band 
Led  forth  by  chiefs  to  battle.    Perished  now 
Is  all.    The  walls  are  fallen;  the  busy  streets 
Send  forth  glad  sounds  no  more;  the  palaces 
Are  crumbled,  and  the  forms  that  dwelt  among 
The  massy  piles  are  gone;  and  'mid  the  waste 
Upshoot  the  mighty  giants  of  the  wood, 
And  all  rests  in  the  silence  and  the  peace 
Of  sinless  nature.     Eloquent  is  all 
The  region  round.     The  voices  of  the  dead 
Break  with  a  deeper  cadence  on  the  ear 
Amid  the  desolation  of  the  scene. 
Tread  softly  o'er  the  mould,  for  kindred  dust 
Here  sleeps  the  sleep  of  ages.     Stir  it  not; 
Nor  with  irreverent  footsteps. dare  profane 


59 


The  earth  where  vanished  generations  rest. 

Here  tread  aside  where  this  descending  brook 
Pays  a  scant  tribute  to  the  mightier  stream, 
And  all  the  summer  long  on  silver  feet 
Trips  lightly  o'er  the  pebbles,  sending  out 
A  mellow  murmur  on  the  quiet  air. 
Just  up  the  narrow  glen  in  yonder  glade, 
Set  like  a  nest  amid  embowering  trees, 
Lived,  in  my  early  days,  an  humble  pair, 
A  mother  and  her  daughter.     She,  the  dame, 
Had  well  nigh  seen  her  threescore  years  and  ten; 
Her  step  was  tremulous;  slight  was  her  frame, 
And  bowed  with  time  and  toil;  the  lines  of  care 
Worn  deep  upon  her  brow.     At  shut  of  day 
I've  met  her  by  the  skirt  of  this  old  wood 
Alone,  and  faintly  murmuring  to  herself 
Haply  the  history  of  her  better  days. 
I  knew  that  history  once  from  youth  to  age; 
It  was  a  sad  one.     He  wrho  wedded  her 
Had  wronged  her  love,  and  thick  the  darts  of 

death 

Had  fallen  among  her  children  and  her  friends. 
One  solace  for  her  age  remained — a  fair 
And  gentle  daughter,  with  blue,  pensive  eyes, 
And  cheeks  like  summer  roses.    Her  sweet  songs 
Rang  like  the  thrush's  warble  in  these  woods, 


60 


And  up  the  rocky  dells.     At  noon  and  eve, 

Her  walk  was  o'er  the  hills,  and  by  the  founts 

Of  the  deep  forest.    Oft  she  gathered  flowers 

In  lone  and  desolute  places,  where  the  foot 

Of  other  wanderers  but  seldom  trod. 

Once  in  my  boyhood,  when  my  truant  steps 

Had  led  me  forth  among  the  pleasant  hills, 

I  met  her  in  a  shaded  path  that  winds 

Far  through  the  spreading  groves.     The  sun  was 

low; 

The  shadow  of  the  hills  stretched  o'er  the  vale, 
And  the  still  waters  of  the  river  lay 
Black  in  the  shade  of  twilight.    As  we  met, 
She  stoop'd  and  pressed  her  friendly  lips  to  mine; 
And  though  I  then  was  but  a  simple  child, 
Who  ne'er  had  dreamed  of  love,  or  known  its 

power, 

I  wondered  at  her  beauty.     Soon  a  sound 
Of  thunder,  muttering  low  along  the  west, 
Foretold  a  coming  storm.     My  homeward  path 
Lay  through  the  woods  tangled  with  under 
growth. 

A  timid  urchin  then,  I  feared  to  go, 
Which  she  observing,  kindly  led  the  way, 
And  left  me  when  my  dwelling  was  in  sight. 
I  hasted  on;  but  ere  I  reached  the  gate, 


61 


The  rain  fell  fast,  and  the  drenched  fields  around 
Were  glittering  in  the  lightning's  frequent  flash. 
But  were  was  now  Eliza?    When  the  morn 
Blushed  on  the  summer  hills,  they  found  her 

dead 

Beneath  an  oak  rent  by  the  thunderbolt. 
Thick  lay  the  splinters  round,  and  one  sharp 

shaft 
Had  pierced  her  snow  white  brow.    And  here 

she  lies, 
Where  the  green  hill  slopes  towards  the  southern 

sky. 

'Tis  thirty  summers  since  they  laid  her  here; 
The  cottage  where  she  dwelt  is  razed  and  gone; 
Her  kindred  are  all  perished  from  the  earth; 
And  this  rude  stone,  which  simply  bears  her 

name, 

Is  mouldering  fast;  and  soon  this  quiet  spot, 
Held  sacred  now,  will  be  like  the   common 

ground. 

Fit  place  is  this  for  so  much  loveliness 
To  find  its  rest.     It  is  a  hallowed  shrine 
Where  nature  pays  her  tribute.     Dewy  spring 
Sets  the  gay  wild  flowers  thick  around  her  grave; 
The  green -boughs  o'er  her  in  the  summer  time 
Sigh  to  the  winds;  the  robin  takes  his  perch 


62 


Hard  by,  and  warbles  to  his  sitting  mate; 
The  brier-rose  blossoms  to  the  skies  of  June, 
And  hangs  above  her  in  the  winter  time 
Its  scarlet  fruit.    No  rude  foot  ventures  near; 
The  noisy  school-boy  keeps  aloof;  and  he 
Who  hunts  the  fox  when  all  the  hills  are  white, 
Here  treads  aside.     Not  seldom  have  I  found 
Around  this  headstone  carefully  entwined, 
Garlands  of  flowers,  I  never  knew  by  whom. 
For  two  years  past,  I've  missed  them;  doubtless 

one  ^ 

Who  held  this  dust  most  precious  placed  them 

here, 

And  sorrowing  in  secret  many  a  year, 
At  last  hath  left  the  earth  to  be  with  her. 


63 


SONNET. 

Like  music  o'er  the  wide  unruffled  sea, 
Or  echo  from  the  forest-covered  hill, 
At  midnight,  when  the  wandering  winds  are  still, 
Thoughts  of  my  happier  days  return  to  me,— 
Thoughts  of  the  time  when  first  I  met  thy  smile, 
The  glance  of  thy  dark  eye  so  clear  and  bright. 
Ah!  it  did  seem  a  beam  of  heaven's  pure  light, 
Sent  down  to  banish  Earth's  dull  cares  awhile. 
Those  days  are  past.     No  more  thou  meetest  me 
At  the  calm  hour  when  daylight  hues  depart, 
For  thou  art  far  away:   yet  memory 
Hath  stamped  thy  image  deeply  on  my  heart; 
Hope  holds  the  promise  that  we  meet  again; 
I  cannot  deem  so  sweet  a  promise  vain. 


64 


SONNET— OCTOBER. 

I  love  the  time  of  Autumn's  fading  groves; 
For  with  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  appears 
A  dreamy  sadness,  that  my  spirit  loves, 
And  loves  the  more  with  my  departing  years. 
How  soft  the  light  that  lies  on  all  the  scene, 
How  sweet  the  stillness  of  the  hazy  noon, 
When  first  succeed  to  Summer's  living  green 
The  Autumn  splendors.  Then  the  glorious  moon 
Sails  in  a  purer  heaven,  and  bright  stars  shed 
A  blessed  radiance  on  the  paths  of  men; 
And  they  who  walked  with  timid  steps  in  dread 
Of  fell  disease,  at  length  breathe  free  again. 
Through  all  the  land  the  hand  of  death  is  stayed, 
And  pallid  cheeks  with  healthful  bloom  are 
spread. 


65 


ON  LEAVING  THE  PLACE  OF  MY  NATIVITY. 

I  stand  where  often  I  have  stood, 

Beside  this  dark  old  mossy  wood; 

And  tread  where  oft  my  feet  have  trod, 

Upon  this  bright  and  blooming  sod. 

The  open  fields,  that  round  me  lie, 

Slope  gently  toward  the  southern  sky; 

Upon  their  bosom,  far  away, 

The  light  winds  with  the  harvest  play, 

Come  up  the  green  acclivity, 

On  silken  wings,  to  visit  me; 

Sigh  to  my  ear,  I  know  not  why, 

And  leave  my  presence  with  a  sigh. 

On  yonder  mountain's  rugged  breast 

The  pines  in  sullen  silence  rest; 

The  copses,  drest  in  softer  green, 

Adorn  the  valley  stretched  between; 

And  through  the  openings  of  their  shade 

The  winding  river  is  betrayed; 

The  boatman  dips  his  glistening  oar 

And  pushes  from  the  alder  shore; 

The  sunbeams  on  the  small  waves  play, 

And  twinkle  through  the  shattered  spray; 

The  echo  of  the  mountain  rill 

Breaks  softly  from  the  beechen  hill; 


And  river's  flood,  and  wood  and  glen, 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  busy  men, 

The  meeting  line  of  earth  and  sky 

Where  the  long  circling  forests  lie; 

Earth's  fruits,  in  rich  profusion  given, 

The  glorious  azure  arch  of  heaven, 

The  golden  sun's  resplendent  light, 

All  break  at  once  upon  my  sight. 

And  what  should  cloud  my  heart  with  care 

When  all  around  is  gay  and  fair? 

It  is  that,  on  its  coming  wings, 

The  morrow  my  departure  brings; 

And  that  the  scenes  which  round  me  lie 

No  more  may  meet  my  living  eye; 

The  mossy  knoll  beneath  the  tree, 

Where  first  I  played  in  infancy, 

The  orchard,  and  the  shady  nook 

Beside  the  rapid  of  the  brook; 

The  wider  range  my  boyhood  knew, 

The  higher  hill,  the  broader  view, 

The  grassy  steep  upon  whose  brow 

I  muse  in  silent  sadness  now; 

All  these  dear  haunts  of  peace  and  rest 

I  leave,  to  wander  in  the  West. 

But  there's  a  deeper  sadness  still 

Than  leaving  forest,  stream  and  hill; 


For  at  this  parting  I  forego 

All  that  is  dear  to  me  below, 

And  break  the  sacred  ties  which  bind 

Heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind. 

She  who  in  my  early  days 

Trained  my  feet  in  virtue's  ways, 

And  gave  me,  in  my  riper  years, 

Blessings  mixed  with  smiles  and  tears, 

No  more  may  make  this  heart  rejoice 

With  the  sweet  accents  of  her  voice. 

Yon  upland,  where  the  forest  waves 

Above  the  lonely  place  of  graves, 

O'er  the  dear  friends  whose  ashes  lie 

Beneath  this  bright  blue  mountain  sky; 

My  father,  in  whose  voice  I  heard 

Tones  that  all  my  bosom  stirred; 

And  her,  the  meek  and  lovely  flower, 

Who  faded  in  life's  morning  hour:— 

That  sacred  spot  no  more  shall  be 

A  place  of  frequent  haunt  to  me. 

The  locust-tree  I  planted  there 

May  flourish  long  in  summer  air; 

The  soft  gales  bend  it,  and  the  sound 

Of  murmuring  bees  be  heard  around. 

There  birds  shall  sing,  and  white  flocks  feed, 

The  weary  stranger  stop  his  steed, 


68 


To  muse  awhile  among  the  stones 

That  mark  the  rest  of  human  bones. 

But  I,  alas!  no  more  may  tread 

The  turf  where  sleep  those  loved  ones — dead ! 

And  she,  who  in  her  father's  hall 

Stands  graceful,  fair,  erect,  and  tall, 

Whose  smiles  and  glances  answered  mine, 

With  look  and  mien  almost  divine, 

Will  smile  upon  another  now, 

And  pledge  her  love  in  solemn  vow; 

Will  leave  her  childhood's  dwelling  side; 

And  round  her,  in  their  strength  and  pride, 

Shall  sons  arise,  and  daughters  bloom, 

To  light  the  chambers  of  her  home; 

But  years  shall  waste,  and  day  by  day 

That  bloom  and  beauty  fade  away, 

Till  she,  so  fair,  so  lovely  now, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  years  shall  bow; 

And  men  shall  lay  her  sleeping  head 

At  last  among  the  silent  dead. 

Though  beauty's  bloom  so  soon  be  past, 

And  death  shall  level  all  at  last, 

And  though  the  cup  of  life's  best  years 

O'erflow  with  bitterness  and  tears, 

Still  I  am  sad  that  I  shall  see 

No  more  that  form  so  dear  to  me ; 

It  chills  the  current  of  my  strain 

To  think  we  ne'er  shall  meet  again ! 


ROGER  CRANE. 

I  had  been  wandering  in  the  wood, 

A  child  of  eight  years  old,  or  so, 
With'  careless  step  and  dreamy  mood, 

Where  fancy  prompted  me  to  go. 
'Twas  then  I  met  old  Roger  Crane, 

One  whom  I  ne'er  had  seen  before, 
But  oft  had  heard  aunt  Betty  tell 

His  dark,  mysterious  story  o'er. 
I  found  him  in  an  open  glade, 

Sitting  upon  a  smooth  gray  stone ; 
Beside  him  rose  a  blasted  tree; 
His  broad  hand  rested  on  his  knee ; 

Musing  he  seemed,  and  all  alone. 
Wild  was  the  scene  and  lonely  round, 

And  moss-clad  rocks  were  scattered  nigh, 
Deep  shadowy  woods  enclosed  the  spot, 

And  running  waters  murmured  by. 
The  sun  was  set,  the  twilight  came; 

One  star  was  twinkling  overhead, 
And  from  the  western  sky  the  fringe 

Of  crimson  light  was  almost  fled. 


His  shaggy  brow  was  sternly  knit; 
It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  drew  nigh, 
That  wrath  was  kindling  deep  within 

The  chamber  of  that  awful  eye. 
I  met  his  glance  and  oh!  my  heart; 

Its  very  blood  grew  thick  and  chill; 
I  had  no  power  to  stir  a  pace, 
For  I  was  rooted  to  the  place, 

A  statue,  motionless  and  still. 
I  broke  the  spell  with  one  long  bound; 

Methought  I  heard  his  footstep  follow; 
But  when  I  reached  the  opposing  hill 
I  looked,  and  saw  old  Roger  still 

Lone  sitting  in  the  dusky  hollow. 
Years  passed  away,  but  still  my  feet 

Dared  not  approach  that  spot  again; 
And  oft,  in  dreams,  T  started  at 

The  image  of  old  Roger  Crane. 
But  bolder  lads,  who  ventured  near, 

Told  that  they  saw  him  sitting  there; 
And  that,  at  distance,  you  might  hear 

His  voice  upon  the  midnight  air. 
In  winter  Roger  was  not  seen; 

But  when  the  light  of  spring  was  come, 
Ere  yet  the  warmest  vales  wei'e  green, 


71 


He  issued  from  his  secret  home, 
And  threw  the  fallen  boughs  aside, 

And  scraped  away  the  darkened  snow 
That  o'er  the  mossy  knoll  was  spread, 

And  cast  it  in  the  brook  below. 
So  that  the  earliest  warmth  might  lie 
Upon  the  sere  declivity. 
At  length  a  sweeping  tempest  came; 

The  rushing  rain  in  torrents  poured, 
And  through  the  hollows  of  the  wood, 

The  fearful  whirlwind  swept  and  roared. 
Dark  was  the  night,  and  doleful  sounds 

Were  heard  upon  the  murky  sky, 
And  fitful  was  the  lightning's  flash. 
And  trees  fell  down  with  dreaful  crash, 

As  that  tremendous  storm  went  by. 
The  uproar  ceased,  and  men  passed  o'er 

The  spot  where  Roger  sat  so  long. 
The  blasted  tree  uprooted  lay; 
The  stream  had  washed  the  knoll  away; 

And  still  poured  furiously  and  strong. 
But  nought  of  Roger  Crane  was  there, 

Save  that  his  tattered  hat  was  found 
Far  down  the  channel  of  the  brook, 

Half  buried  in  the  pebbly  ground, 


And  still  he  never  has  been  seen, 

Though  since  that  storm  twelve  years  have 

flown; 

But  some  who  wandered  near  the  spot. 
At  evening,  when  the  winds  are  not, 

Have  said  they  heard  a  smothered  moan. 
And  some  aver  that  they  descried 

His  dim  ghost  gliding  by  the  wood, 
Far  in  the  twilight's  doubtful  gleam, 
Or  in  the  mist,  above  the  stream 

Where  once  the  withered  tree  had  stood. 
They  said  they  knew  his  long  white  hair, 
His  scowling  eye  and  savage  air; 
But  why  he  sat  upon  that  stone, 

And  what,  beneath  that  blasted  tree, 
He  muttered  to  himself  alone, 

Is  all  a  mystery  to  me. 
Some  said  he'd  done  a  wicked  deed, 

For  which  his  conscience  ever  smarted; 
And  some,  that  he  was  mad  with  grief; 

And  some,  that  he  was  broken-hearted, 
And  that,  beneath  the  stone  so  gray, 
On  which  he  sat  so  many  a  day, 
His  loved  one's  dust  was  laid  away; 
That  when  the  fearful  storm  was  gone, 


73 


And  men  for  Roger  came  to  look, 
Some  scattered  human  bones  were  found 

Along  the  channel  of  the  brook. 
Some  guessed  that  in  the  winter  time, 

When  all  our  hearth-fires  brightly  burned, 
He  dwelt  in  some  deep  mountain  cave, 

And  came  again  when  spring  returned. 
Yet  whether  this  surmise  be  true, 
I  know  not,  and  I  never  knew; 
But  this  I  know,  that  for  the  term 

Of  thirty  summers,  on  that  stone, 
Through  all  the  changes  of  the  sky, 
Through  cold  and  heat,  and  wet  and  dry, 

Old  Roger  sat  and  mused  alone; 
And  when  the  mighty  tempest  came, 

And  floods  poured  down  the  narrow  glen, 
He  left  his  long-frequented  haunt,          .. 

And  vanished  from  the  sight  of  men. 


74 


THE  BETTER  PART. 

Why  should  we  toil  for  hoarded  gain, 
Or  waste  in  strife  our  nobler  powers, 

Or  follow  Pleasure's  glittering  train? 
0,  let  a  happier  choice  be  ours. 


Death  shall  unnerve  the  arm  of  power, 
Unclasp  the  firmest  grasp  on  gold, 

And  scatter  wide  in  one  brief  hour 
The  treasured  heaps  of  wealth  untold. 


The  hero's  glory,  and  his  fame, 

Built  up  mid  crime,  and  blood,  and  tears, 
Are  but  a  transient  flash  of  flame 

Amid  the  eternal  night  of  years. 


He  whom  but  yesterday  we  saw 
Earth's  mightiest  prince,  is  gone  to  day; 

All  systems,  creeds,  save  Truth's  great  law, 
Are  borne  along  and  swept  away. 


75 


And  Fashion's  forms  and  gilded  show, 
Shall  vanish  with  the  fleeting  breath ; 

And  Pleasure's  votaries  shall  know 
Their  folly  at  the  gates  of  death. 


But  he  who  delves  for  buried  thought, 
And  seeks  with  care  for  hidden  truth, 

Shall  find  in  age,  unasked,  unbought, 
A  rich  reward  for  toil  in  youth. 


Aye  more, — away  beyond  life's  goal, 
Of  earnest  toil  each  weary  day 

Shall  light  the  pathway  of  the  soul 
Far  on  its  onward,  upward  way. 


Then  who  can  tell  how  wide  a  sphere 
Of  thought  and  deed  shall  be  his  lot, 

Who  treasured  truth  and  knowledge  here, 
And  doing  good,  himself  forgot? 


SENATCHWINE'S  GRAVE. 

He  sleeps  beneath  the  spreading  shade, 
Where  woods  and  wide  savannas  meet, 

Where  sloping  hills  around  have  made 
A  quiet  valley,  green  and  sweet. 


A  stream  that  bears  his  name  and  flows 
In  glimmering  gushes  from  the  west, 

Makes  a  light  murmur  as  it  goes 
Beside  his  lonely  place  of  rest. 


And  here  the  silken  blue-grass  springs, 
Low  bending  with  the  morning  dew; 

The  red-bird  in  the  thicket  sings, 
And  blossoms  nod  of  various  hue. 


Oh,  spare  his  rest!  oh,  level  not 
The  trees  whose  boughs  above  it  play, 

Nor  break  the  turf  that  clothes  the  spot, 
Nor  clog  the  rivulet's  winding  way. 


77 


For  he  was  of  unblenching  eye. 
Honored  in  youth,  revered  in  age, 

Of  princely  port  and  bearing  high. 
And  brave,  and  eloquent,  and  sage. 

Ah!  scorn  not  that  a  tawny  skin 

Wrapped  his  strong  limbs  and  ample  breast; 
A  noble  soul  was  throned  within, 

As  the  pale  Saxon  e'er  possessed. 

Beyond  the  broad  Atlantic  deep, 

In  mausoleums  rich  and  vast, 
Earth's  early  kings  and  heroes  sleep, 

Waiting  the  angel's  trumpet  blast. 

As  proud  in  form  and  mien  was  he 
Who  sleeps  beneath  this  verdant  sod, 

And  shadowed  forth  as  gloriously 
The  image  of  the  eternal  God. 

Theirs  is  the  monumental  pile, 
With  lofty  titles  graved  on  stone, 

The  vaulted  roof,  the  fretted  aisle — 
He  sleeps  unhonored  and  alone. 


78 


A  scene  he  loved  around  him  lies, 

These  blooming  plains  outspreading  far, 

River,  and  vale,  and  boundless  skies, 
With  sun,  and  cloud,  and  shining  star. 

He  knew  each  pathway  through  the  wood. 
Each  dell  unwarmed  by  sunshine's  gleam, 

Where  the  brown  pheasant  led  her  brood, 
Or  wild  deer  came  to  drink  the  stream. 

Oft  hath  he  gazed  from  yonder  height, 
When  pausing  'mid  the  chase  alone, 

On  the  fair  realms  beneath  his  sight, 
And  proudly  called  them  all  his  own. 

Then  leave  him  still  this  little  nook, 
Ye  who  have  grasped  his  wide  domain, 

The  trees,  the  flowers,  the  grass,  the  brook, 
Nor  stir  his  slumbering  dust  again. 


79 


SONNET. 

Backward  I  look  o'er  three  score  years  and  ten, 
To  the  dear  home  upon  the  mountain  side, 
Its  glorious  prospect  opening  far  and  wide, 
With  verdant  fields,  wild  woods,  and  haunts  of 

men. 
Brothers  and  sisters — seven  blithe  souls  were 

we— 

Father  and  mother,  then  a  happy  band- 
Now  I  alone  remain,  and  waiting  stand, 
Till  the  dark  gate  shall  open  unto  me. 
Could  I  bring  back  one  day  of  that  far  time, 
With  the  dear  friends  that  gathered  round  our 

hearth, 
Childhood   and   youth,   and   manhood's   noble 

prime. 

I've  dreamed  I  could  resign  all  else  on  earth. 
But  all  those  years  of  life  have  once  been  mine. 
I've  had  my  time,  and  why  should  I  repine? 


80 


THE  ANCIENT  OAK. 

'Twas  many  a  year  ago, 

When  life  with  me  was  new, 
A  lordly  oak,  with  spreading  arms, 

By  my  mountain-dwelling  grew. 

O'er  the  roof  and  chimney-top, 

Uprose  that  glorious  tree; 
No  giant  of  all  the  forests  round 

Had  mightier  boughs  than  he. 

On  the  silken  turf  below 

He  cast  a  cool,  deep  shade, 
Where  oft,  till  the  summer  sun  went  down 

Myself  and  my  sister  played. 

We  plnsted  the  violet  there, 

And  there  the  pansy  leant; 
And  the  columbine,  with  slender  stems, 

To  the  soft  June  breezes  bent. 

The  robin  warbled  above, 
As  he  builded  his  house  of  clay; 

And  he  seemed  to  sing  with  a  livelier  note 
At  the  sight  of  our  mirthful  play. 


81 


And  there  in  the  sultry  noon, 

With  brawny  limbs  and  breast, 
On  the  silken  turf,  in  that  cool  shade, 

The  reaper  came  to  rest. 

When,  through  the  autumn  haze, 

The  golden  sunshine  came, 
His  crimson  summit  glowed  in  the  light, 

Like  a  spire  of  ruddy  flame. 

And  oft,  in  the  autumn  blast, 

The  acorns,  rattling  loud,  [hail 

Were  showered  on  our  roof,  like  the  big  round 

That  falls  from  the  summer  cloud. 

And  higher  and  broader  still, 

With  the  rolling  years  he  grew; 
And  his  roots  were  deeper  and  firmer  set, 

The  more  the  rough  winds  blew. 

At  length  in  an  evil  hour, 

The  axe  at  its  root  was  laid, 
And  he  fell,  with  all  his  boughs,  on  the  spot 

He  had  darkened  with  his  shade. 

And  into  the  prostrate  boughs 

We  climbed,  my  sister  and  I, 
And  swung,  'mid  the  shade  of  the  glossy  leaves, 

Till  the  stars  came  out  in  the  sky. 


All  day  we  swung  and  played. 

For  the  west  wind  gently  blew; 
'Twas  the  day  that  the  post-boy  brought  the  news 

Of  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

But  his  leaves  were  withered  soon, 

And  they  bore  his  trunk  away, 
And  the  blazing  sun  shone  in  at  noon. 

On  the  place  of  our  early  play. 

And  the  weary  reaper  missed 
The  shade,  when  he  came  to  rest; 

And  the  robin  found  no  more  in  spring 
The  sprays  where  he  built  his  nest. 

Now  thirty  summers  are  gone. 

And  thirty  winters  of  snow; 
And  a  stranger  I  seek  the  paths  and  shades 

Where  I  rambled  long  ago. 

I  pause  where  the  glorious  oak 
His  boughs  to  the  blue  sky  spread, 

And  I  think  of  the  strong  and  beautiful 
Who  lie  among  the  dead. 

I  think,  with  a  bitter  pang, 

Of  the  days  in  which  I  played, 
Watched  by  kind  eyes  that  now  are  closed, 

Beneath  his  ample  shade. 


A  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

One  ramble  through  the  woods  with  me, 
Thou  dear  companion  of  my  days! 

These  mighty  woods,  how  quietly 
They  sleep  in  autumn's  golden  haze! 

The  gay  leaves,  twinkling  in  the  breeze. 
Still  to  the  forest  branches  cling. 

They  lie  like  blossoms  on  the  trees— 
The  brightest  blossoms  of  the  spring. 

Flowers  linger  in  each  sheltered  nook. 
And  still  the  cheerful  song  of  bird, 

And  murmur  of  the  bee  and  brook, 

Through  all  the  quiet  groves  are  heard; 

And  bell  of  kine  that  sauntering  browse, 
And  squirrel,  chirping  as  he  hides 

Where  gorgeously,  with  crimson  boughs, 
The  creeper  clothes  the  oak's  gray  sides. 

How  mild  the  light  in  all  the  skies! 

How  balmily  the  south  wind  blows! 
The  smile  of  God  around  us  lies, 

His  rest  is  in  this  deep  repose. 


84 


These  whispers  of  the  flowing  air. 
These  waters  that  in  music  fall, 

These  sounds  of  peaceful  life,  declare 
The  love  that  keeps  and  hushes  all. 

Then  let  us  to  the  forest  shade, 
And  roam  its  paths  the  livelong  day; 

These  glorious  hours  were  never  made 
In  life's  dull  cares  to  waste  away. 

\ 

We'll  wander  by  the  running  stream. 

And  pull  the  wild  grape  hanging  o'er, 
And  list  the  fisher's  startling  scream, 
That  perches  by  the  pebbly  shore. 

And  when  the  sun,  to  his  repose. 

Sinks  in  the  rosy  west  at  even, 
And  over  field  and  forest  throws 

A  hue  that  makes  them  seem  like  heaven, - 

We'll  overlook  the  glorious  land, 

From  the  green  brink  of  yonder  height. 

And  silently  adore  the  hand 
That  made  our  world  so  fair  and  bright. 


85 


ON  FINDING  A  FOUNTAIN  IN  A  SECLUDED 
PART  OF  A  FOREST. 

.  Three  hundred  years  are  scarcely  gone, 
Since,  to  the  New  World's  virgin  shore, 

Crowds  of  rude  men  were  pressing  on, 
To  range  its  boundless  regions  o'er. 

Some  bore  the  sword  in  bloody  hands, 
And  sacked  its  helpless  towns  for  spoil; 

Some  searched  foi%  gold  the  river's  sands, 
Or  trenched  the  mountains  stubborn  soil. 

And  some  with  higher  purpose  sought, 
Through  forests  wild,  and  wastes  uncouth, 

Sought  with  long  toil,  yet  found  it  not, 
The  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 

They  said  in  some  green  valley,  where 

The  foot  of  man  had  never  trod, 
There  gushed  a  fountain  bright,  and  fair. 

Up  from  the  ever  verdant  sod. 

There  they  who  drank  should  never  know 
Age,  with  its  weakness,  pain  and  gloom, 


Sfi 


And  from  its  brink  the  old  should  go 
With  youth's  light  step  and  radiant  bloom. 

Is  not  this  fount  so  pure  and  sweet. 

Whose  stainless  current  ripples  o'er 
The  fringe  of  blossoms  at  my  feet, 

The  same  those  pilgrims  sought  of  yore? 

How  brightly  leap,  'mid  glittering  sands, 

The  living  waters  from  below: 
0  let  me  dip  these  lean,  brown  hands. 

Drink  deep,  and  bathe  this  wrinkled  brow. 

And  feel,  through  every  skrunken  vein. 

The  warm,  red  stream  flow  swift  and  free- 
Feel  waking  in  my  heart  again. 
Youth's  brightest  hopes,  youth's  wildest  glee. 

Tis  vain;  for  still  the  life-blood  plays 

With  sluggish  course  through  all  my  frame; 

The  mirror  of  the  pool  betrays 
My  wrinkled  visage  still  the  same. 

And  the  sad  spirit  questions  still 
Must  this  warm  frame— these  limbs,  that  yield 

To  each  light  motion  of  the  will- 
Lie  with  the  dull  clods  of  the  field? 


Has  nature  no  renewing  power 
To  drive  the  frost  of  age  away? 

Has  earth  no  fount,  or  herb,  or  flower, 
Which  man  may  taste  and  live  for  aye? 

Alas!  for  that  unchanging  state 

Of  youth  and  strength,  in  vain  we  yearn; 
And  only  after  death's  dark  gate 

Is  reached  and  passed,  can  youth  return. 


88 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  SONG. 

Away,  away  we  haste 

Vast  plains  and  mountains  o'er. 
To  the  glorious  land  of  the  distant  West, 

By  the  broad  Pacific's  shore. 

Onward,  with  toilsome  pace, 

O'er  the  desert  vast  and  dim, 
From  morn  till  the  sun  goes  down  to  his  place 

At  the  far  horizon's  brim. 

By  the  wild  Missouri's  side- 
By  the  lonely  Platte  we  go, 

That  brings  its  cold  and  turbid  tide 
From  far-off  cliffs  of  snow. 

The  red  deer  in  the  shade 

Shall  fall  before  our  aim, 
And  at  eventide  shall  our  feast  be  made 

From  the  flesh  of  the  bison's  frame. 

And  when  our  feast  is  done, 

And  the  twilight  sinks  away,  [gone, 

We  will  talk  of  the  deeds  of  the  days  that  are 

And  the  friends  that  are  far  away. 


89 


We  heed  not  the  burning  sun, 

Nor  the  plain  winds  wild  and  bleak, 

And  the  driving  rain  will  beat  in  vain 
On  the  emigrant's  hardened  cheek. 

Still  onward,  day  by  day, 
O'er  the  vast  and  desolate  plain, 

With  resolute  hearts  we  plod  our  way, 
Till  our  distant  home  we  gain. 

And  when  at  last  we  stand 

On  the  wild  Nevada's  side, 
We'll  look  afar  o'er  the  lovely  land 

And  the  heaving  ocean's  tide. 

Of  the  past  we'll  think  no  more, 
When  our  journey's  end  is  won, 

And  we'll  build  our  house  by  the  rocky  shore 
Of  the  mighty  Oregon. 


90 


AFTER  DEATH. 

Why  should  we  cling  to  those  that  die? 

Why  fondly  mark  and  haunt  the  place 
Where  a  dear  brothers  ashes  lie, 

Amid  the  relics  of  his  race? 

Why  weep  above  the  inclosing  sod 
Where  the  loved  form  was  laid  away, 

As  if  the  spirit  sent  from  God 

Still  dwelt  within  the  mouldering  clay? 

Years,  as  they  pass,  shall  scatter  wdde 
That  dust  by  narrow  walls  confined, 

Wherever  ocean  sends  his  tide, 
Or  earth  is  swept  by  winnowing  wind. 

These  trees,  the  harvests  on  these  plains, 
The  air  we  breathe,  the  dust  we  tread, 

The  tide  of  life  that  fills  these  veins. 
Are  portions  of  the  buried  dead. 

Hath  God,  then,  doomed,  when  life  is  o'er, 
The  soul  to  slumber  in  the  tomb. 

While  yet  the  form,  the  limbs  it  wore, 
Are  on  the  earth  in  life  and  bloom? 


91 


The  mind,  far  reaching  into  space. 

Gauges  the  bulk  of  distant  spheres- 
Finds  out  each  planet's  course  and  place. 
And  measures  all  their  days  and  years. 

'    But  who  beyond  that  bourne  hath  gazed, 

At  which  our  mortal  senses  fail, 
Into  the  spirit  world,  or  raised 
Twixt  life  and  death  the  parting  veil  tf 

The  deepest  search  of  human  thought, 
The  furthest  stretch  of  human  eye, 

No  tidings  from  the  soul  have  brought, 
Beyond  the  moment  when  we  die. 

With  trembling  hope  I  wait  the  change, 
When  thought  and  sight,  unclogged  by  sin, 

Through  God's  vast  universe  shall  range, 
And  take  the  world  of  spirits  in. 

Ours  be  meanwhile  the  cheerful  creed, 
That  leaves  the  spirit  free  to  roam, 

By  mount  and  river,  wood  and  mead, 
'Till  Heaven's  kind  voice  shall  call  it  home. 


92 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD. 

As  when,  on  Carmel's  sterile  steep, 
The  ancient  prophet  bowed  the  knee, 

And  seven  times  sent  his  servant  forth 
To  look  toward  the  distant  sea; 

There  came  at  last  a  little  cloud, 

Scarce  broader  than  the  human  hand, 

Spreading  and  swelling  till  it  broke 
In  showers  on  all  the  herbless  land. 


And  hearts  were  glad,  and  shouts  went  up. 
And  praise  to  Israel's  mighty  God, 

As  the  sere  hills  grew  bright  with  flowers, 
And  verdure  clothed  the  naked  sod. 

Even  so  our  eyes  have  waited  long; 

But  now  a  little  cloud  appears, 
Spreading  and  swelling  as  it  glides 

Onward  into  the  coming  years. 


93 


Bright  cloud  of  Liberty!  full  soon, 
Far  stretching  from  the  ocean  strand, 

Thy  glorious  folds  shall  spread  abroad, 
Encircling  our  beloved  land. 


Like  the  sweet  rain  on  Judah's  hills, 
The  glorious  boon  of  love  shall  fall. 

And  our  bond  millions,  startled,  rise 
As  at  an  angel's  trumpet  call. 


Then  shall  a  shout  of  joy  go  up, 
The  wild,  glad  cry  of  freedom  come 

From  hearts  long  crushed  by  cruel  hands, 
And  songs  from  lips  long  sealed  and  dumb; 


And  every  bondman's  chain  be  broke, 
And  every  soul  that  moves  abroad 

In  this  wide  realm  shall  know  and  feel 
The  blessed  Liberty  of  God. 


94 


THE  VALLEY  BROOK. 

From  the  cool  fountains  of  the  wood, 

A  rivulet  of  the  valley  came. 
And  glided  on  for  many  a  rood, 

Flushed  with  the  morning's  ruddy  name. 

The  air  was  calm  and  soft  and  sweet, 
The  slopes  in  Spring's  new  verdure  lay, 

And  wet  with  dew-drops,  at  my  feet, 
Bloomed  the  young  violets  of  May. 

No  sound  of  busy  life  was  heard, 
Amid  those  pastures  lone  and  still. 

Save  the  faint  chrip  of  early  bird. 
Or  bleat  of  flocks  along  the  hill. 

I  traced  that  rivulet's  winding  way; 

New  scenes  of  beauty  opened  round. 
Where  meads  of  brighter  verdure  lay 

And  lovelier  blossoms  tinged  the  ground. 


"Ah!  happy  valley  stream,"  I  said, 
"Calm  glides  thy  wave  amid  the  flowers, 

Whose  fragrance  round  thy  path  is  shed 
Through  all  the  joyous  summer  hours. 

"Oh!  could  my  years,  like  thine  be  passed 
In  some  remote  and  silent  glen, 

Where  I  could  dwell  and  sleep  at  last, 
Far  from  the  bustling  haunts  of  men." 

But  what  new  echoes  greet  my  ear! 

The  village  schoolboys'  merry  call; 
And  mid  the  village  hum  I  hear 

The  murmur  of  the  waterfall. 

I  looked;  the  widening  vale  betrayed 
A  pool  that  shone  like  burnished  steel, 

Where  that  bright  valley  stream  was  stayed, 
To  turn  the  miller's  ponderous  wheel. 

Ah!  why  should  I,  I  thought  with  shame, 

Sigh  for  a  life  of  solitude, 
When  even  this  stream,  without  a  name. 

Is  laboring  for  the  common  good  ? 


96 


No!  never  let  me  shun  my  part, 
Amid  the  busy  scenes  of  life, 

But,  with  a  warm  and  generous  heart, 
Press  onward  in  the  glorious  strife. 

Wherever  human  wrong  is  felt. 

Where'er  oppression,  want  or  woe, 
There  should  the  heart  with  pity  melt, 

And  willing  hands  find  work  to  do. 


97 


A  REVERIE. 

With  the  life  the  Creator  has  deemed  wise  to 

give, 
He  has  woven  with  each  a  deep  yearning  to 

live; 

And  existence  is  bliss  if  we  follow  the  light, 
Nor  blot  out  in  folly  our  sense  of  the  right. 
If  I  cannot  live  alway  I  would  love  to  stay 
Many  years  with  the  friends  who  are  near  me 

to-day. 
For  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  the  dark  rolling 

sea 
Have  each  day  a  new  charm  and  fresh  beauty 

for  me. 

I  tire  not  to  look  on  this  beautiful  world 
Each  morn  as  the  curtains  of  night  are  un 
furled; 

I  gaze  on  the  vast  dome  of  heaven  at  night, 
And  am  thrilled  with  deep  awe  at  the  glorious 

sight. 

Then  the  march  of  the  seasons  that  pass  swift 
ly  on 

'Till  spring,  summer,  autumn,  and  winter  are 
gone; 


98 


And  spring  comes  again  with  its  light  and  its 

bloom 
To  mock  at  the  waste  and  the  blight  of  the 

tomb. 

These  all  have  their  charms  and  their  pleas 
ures  to  give. 
And  are  all  meant  to  gladden  the  life  that  we 

live. 

'Tis  not  manly  to  grieve  at  the  troubles  of  life, 
'Tis  not  brave  wrhen  we  shrink  from  its  cares 

and  its  strife. 
The  clouds  and  the  shadows  that  hang  o'er  our 

way, 

Let  us  buffet  them  bravely  or  smile  them  away. 
To  decry  this  fair  world  by  His  hand  spread 

abroad 

Is  to  sneer  at  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  God. 
But  "would  I  live  alway?v  Most  surely  I-would, 
If  this  body  and  mind  would  still  serve  me  for 

good, 
If  the  joys  of  my  youth  and  my  manhood  could 

stay, 
And  the  friends  that  I  love  could  be  with  me 

alway. 
But  since  all  living  creatures  are  doomed  to 

decay, 
It  is  idle  to  talk  of  not  passing  away. 


99 


INVOCATION. 

0,  south  wind!  from  thy  chambers, 
Where  sleep  the  tropic  isles, 

Where  bloom  the  lime  and  orange, 
And  endless  summer  smiles. 

Breathe  on  this  desolation— 
This  boundless  waste  of  snow; 

Unseal  the  silent  fountains, 
And  bid  the  streamlets  flow. 

Too  long  thy  frost  winds,  Winter, 
Have  howled  around  the  door 

Of  many  a  humble  dwelling, 

Where  shrink  the  friendless  poor. 

Too  long,  the  worn  and  weary. 

The  lonely  and  the  sad, 
Have  pined  for  warmth  and  sunshine, 

To  cheer  and  make  them  glad. 


100 

All  yearn  for  that  sweet  season 

When  children  haunt  the  grove, 
List  to  the  wood  birds  singing 
Their  matin  songs  of  love. 

And  seek,  in  sunny  places, 
Along  the  winding  glen, 

The  first  dear  forest  blossoms, 
Far  from  the  homes  of  men. 

Our  spirits,  0,  ye  waters! 

Shall  be  like  you,  unbound, 
When  ye  break  forth  in  music, 

And  verdure  clothes  the  ground. 

Though  many  years  have  vanished 
Since  first  I  saw  the  light, 

Although  my  brow  is  wrinkled 
And  all  my  locks  are  white. 

Yet  still  I  fain  would  linger 
In  life's  mild  evening  ray, 

Though  few  and  pale  the  blossoms 
That  spring  along  my  way. 


For  nature  kindly  spares  me. 

Spite  of  the  waste  of  time, 
A  firm  elastic  footstep, 

The  rugged  steeps  to  climb. 

And  still,  I  love  full  often 

Through  woods  and  glades  to  stray, 
And  feel,  and  breathe  the  zephyrs, 

That  greet  me  on  my  way. 

And  still,  I  love  to  wander, 
Childlike,  by  gurgling  brook, 

To  seek  for  spring's  first  blossoms, 
In  warm  and  sheltered  nook. 

Then  haste!  0,  balmy  south  wind, 
Breathe  o'er  this  waste  of  snow; 

Bring  back  the  merry  wood  birds, 
And  bid  the  violet  blow. 


102 


THE  MAPLES. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  maples, 
That  cluster  round  my  home, 

I  watch  the  silent  changes. 
That  with  the  seasons  come. 

Tis  six  and  forty  summers. 
Since  the  naked  prairie  land. 

With  the  slender  forest  saplings. 
Was  planted  by  my  hand. 

Then  so  slender,  now  so  sturdy. 

Their  round  tops  towering  high. 
While  beneath  them  on  the  greensward. 

The  broad,  dark  shadows  lie. 

And  still  in  youthful  vigor. 

The  struggling  branches  climb; 
While  my  life's  powers  are  ebbing. 

With  the  passing  years  of  time. 

Beneath  these  spreading  branches. 

Cool  as  the  sky  o'ercast, 
I  dream  of  the  boundless  future, 

And  innse  on  the  mighty  past. 


103 

Here  sometimes  quiet  voices, 
Speak  to  my  inner  ear. 

In  soft  and  tender  accents, 
What  none  but  I  can  hear. 


And  I  think,  but  not  with  sadness. 
When  I  in  earth  am  laid, 

How  after  generations 
Will  bless  this  grateful  shade. 

Here  then,  shall  children  gather, 
For  sport  at  summer  noon, 

When  clover  blooms  are  drooping, 
In  the  burning  heat  of  June. 

Here  each  returning  season. 

Build  the  robin  and  the  jay, 
And  the  oriole  and  throstle 

Sing  the  summer  months  away. 

I  love  those  merry  wood-birds, 

And  sitting  here  I  bless 
The  gentle  winds  that  pass  me. 

With  whisper  and  caress. 


104 

0,  birds  and  summer  zephyrs! 

In  a  better  home  than  this, 
Shall  I  hear  your  joyous  singing, 

And  feel  the  soft  wind's  kiss? 

And  the  once  familiar  faces 

That  I  yearn  to  see  again. 
Will  they  meet  me  at  the  threshold. 

And  smile  upon  me  then? 

Those  six  and  forty  summers, 
Like  a  dream  have  passed  away, 

And  the  day  these  trees  were  planted, 
Now  seems  but  yesterday. 

Since  then  how  many  dear  ones, 

From  earth's  bright  scenes  have  gone, 

While  I  a  little  longer, 
Am  left  to  journey  on. 

'Tis  a  trite  and  hackneyed  subject, 

This  rapid  flight  of  time; 
It  is  one  that  men  have  grieved  about, 

In  every  age  and  clime— 


105 

And  I' doubt  not  old  Methuselah 
Felt  that  nature  did  him  wrong, 

As  he  marked  how  fast  the  centuries 
Were  hurrying  him  along. 

And  there  is  a  tradition 

That  at  last  he  died  of  grief, 

O'er  his  lack  of  opportunity 
In  a  life  so  very  brief. 

As  it  is  with  money-getting, 
So  with  life,  'till  life  is  o'er; 

Man  seldom  has  so  much  of  it, 
But  he  wants  a  little  more. 

And  those  with  locks  all  hoary, 
Spite  of  life's  pains  and  tears, 

Would  cling  to  earthly  being, 
1  wis  a  thousand  years. 

And  who  would  leave  earth's  gladness, 
Its  breath  and  light  and  bloom, 

For  the  coldness  and  the  darkness, 
And  the  silence  of  the  tomb  ? 


106 

For  this  world  is  full  of  beauty. 

The  radiant  sky  o'erhead. 
The  awe  inspiring  mountains, 

The  vales  with  verdure  spread: 

These  homes  of  sweet  affections, 

Of  gentle  deeds  of  love; 
The  men  of  firm  uprightness 

That  human  virtue  prove;— 

These  things  and  countless  others, 
That  charm  life's  onward  way. 

Make  glad  its  opening  morning. 
And  cheer  its  evening  ray. 

Tis  true  its  paths  are  toilsome, 
At  times  exceeding  rough; 

But  save  its  crimes  and  sorrows, 
This  world  is  good  enough. 

And  He  whose  hand  hath  formed  it, 
Plain,  mountain,  sky  and  flood, 

When  the  great  work  was  finished 
Pronounced  his  labor  good. 


107 


A  RECOLLECTION. 

The  night  was  so  calm,  so  silent, 

I  could  hear  the  beat  of  my  heart. 
Like  the  faint  throb  of  an  engine 

Nearing  some  distant  mart, 
Or  laboring  up  the  mountain, 

Whence  the  river  fountains  start 
To  exchange  the  bread  of  the  country 

For  the  city's  wealth  in  art. 

No  voice  in  the  starry  heaven; 

Tn  the  trees  no  whispering  sound; 
No  hum  of  droning  insect 

Came  up  from  the  brooding  ground; 
And  a  sense  of  fear  stole  o'er  me 

In  that  silence  so  profound, 
For  it  seemed  as  if  life  had  perished 

From  everything  around. 

And  I  mused  on  those  distant  cycles 
When  the  great  Earth  swung  in  night; 

Ere  an  ear  had  been  created, 
Or  an  eye  received  the  light, 


108 

And  I  stood  in  awe  at  the  wisdom. 

The  matchless  skill  and  might 
Of  the  great  and  good  All  Father, 

Who  rules  by  love  and  right. 

Who  sheds,  over  all  His  glory— 

The  beauty  that  round  us  glows: 
Who  fills  the  world  with  His  bounty, 

Tints  every  flower  that  blows, 
And  opens  the  gates  of  the  morning: 

And  gives  the  night's  repose. 
And  quickens  the  tide  of  being 

That  over  His  universe  flows. 

And  I  dreamed  of  the  life  immortal. 

Where  the  gardens  of  Paradise  lie. 
Clothed  in  a  living  splendor. 

Never  seen  by  mortal  eye; 
The  mansions — the  homes  eternal. 

Airy  and  vast  and  high, 
And  Life's  river,  pure  as  crystal. 

Whose  fountains  never  drv. 


109 


BORDER   COURTSHIP— A  REMINISCENCE. 

Where  the  highway  winds  down  a  hill. 

Beside  a  sparkling  woodland  rill, 

In  the  mild  winter  thirty-three, 

A  wigwam  stood  beneath  a  tree;— 

A  lordly  oak.  whose  branches  gray, 

Hung  o'er  the  passing  traveler's  way, 

Until  the  woodman's  echoing  stroke 

The  silence  of  the  forest  broke, 

And  felled  to  earth  the  giant  oak. 

Within  that  wigwam  snug  and  warm, 

Close  sheltered  from  the  winter  storm. 

Dwelt  a  proud  chieftain  of  the  band 

That  erst  possessed  this  lovely  land. 

Maumese  his  name,  and,  by  his  side 

A  forest  girl  his  stay  and  pride. 

A  gentle  princes  of  the  wood 

AVhose  form  and  air  betrayed  her  blood. 

Twas  there  a  settler's  roving  son, 

A  blooming  youth  scarce  twenty-one, 

Sought  for  and  found  the  Chieftain's  daughter. 

In  her  lone  home  by  Bureau's  water. 

Bashful  at  first  the  lovers  sat 


110 


Within  a  wigwam  on  a  mat, 
But  soon. found  out  with  little  pother, 
A  way  to  understand  each  other; 
For  love's  soft  language  in  rehearsal. 
The  poet's  say  is  universal. 
Maumese  had  gone  with  day's  first  beam. 
To  hunt  the  deer  along  the  stream. 
Nor  yet  returned,  though  to  his  rest 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
Which  left  the  damsel  quite  at  ea>se 
To  study  arts  her  beau  to  please. 
Her  }routhful  suitor  to  beguile 
She  wore  her  sweetest,  gentlest  smile; 
Plaited  with  nice,  assiduous  care. 
Each  flowing  tress  of  jetty  hair; 
Bound  with  a  ribbon  gay  her  waist. 
To  make  it  more  in  English  taste; 
Arranged  her  beads  and  silver  rings. 
Bracelets,  and  various  trivial  things. 
Which  add  such  charms  to  beauty's  face. 
And  heighten  every  female  grace; 
Around  her  dusky  shoulders  drew, 
A  cotton  scarf  of  azure  hue: 
And  thus  in  all  her  pride  arrayed, 
The  white  man  wooed  the  Indian  maid. 


Ill 


Stately  was  she  in  form  and  mien, 

Fit  pattern  for  a  forest  queen; 

Her  step  was  lighter  than  the  fawn's 

That  bounded  o'er  those  blooming  lawns. 

Her  dark  eye  shed  a  pensive  ray, 

Soft  as  the  violets  of  May 

That  smiled  amid  the  solitudes 

Of  these  her  native  plains  and  woods. 

On  passed  the  days,  'till  wore  away 

The  winter  months,  and  bright  and  gay 

In  the  soft  airs  of  April  sprung 

The  wood-flowers,  and  the  wild  birds  sung 

Amid  the  boughs  that  waved  above 

That  home  of  happiness  and  love. 

For,  while  the  wintry  season  flew. 

Acquaintance  into  friendship  grew; 

Friendship  to  love,  until,  at  last. 

The  golden  links  seemed  strong  and  fast; 

When  without  notice  to  the  lovers, 

Maumese  the  wigwam  roof  uncovers. 

Unloosed  his  ponies  from  their  stakes, 

And  started  for  the  northern  lakes. 

To  meet  his  brother  chiefs  and  sires 

Around  the  Nation's  council  fires. 

Ah!  who  can  tell  what  pangs  of  grief 


112 


Pierced  the  young  daughter  of  the  chief? 

How  streamed  with  tears  those  beaming  eyes. 

How  her  dark  bosom  heaved  with  sighs, 

When  thus  at  one  relentless  stroke. 

The  golden  chain  of  love  was  broke. 

And  as  her  pony  climbed  the  hill. 

She  gazed  behind,  and  listened  still, 

If  haply  she  again  might  see 

Her  lover's  form  beneath  a  tree, 

Or  hear  him  sing,  so  sweet  to  her. 

The  Indian  Philosopher. 

But  e'er  the  nightfall  closed  the  day. 

Long  miles  of  rugged  distance  lay 

Between  the  lovers— parted,  never 

To  meet  again  on  earth  forever! 

When  the  sun  rose  to  noon's  full  height, 

And  filled  the  wood  with  warmth  and  light, 

Our  lover  sauntering  through  the  grove, 

Sought  the  lone  dwelling  of  his  love. 

As  midst  her  marble  piles  o'erthrown 

Old  exiled  Marius  sat  alone. 

And  wept  the  sad  and  mournful  fate 

Of  Carthage,  fallen  and  desolate; 

Even  so  our  hero,  when  he  stood 

By  that  lone  wigwam  of  the  wood,— 


No  sound  of  human  footstep  there. 

Its  bare  poles  quivering  to  the  air. 

Its  hearth's  cold  ashes  slaked  and  strown, 

The  maid  he  loved  far  distant  gone, 

O'er  blasted  hopes  with  bleeding  heart, 

Wept  with  a  keener,  bitterer  smart. 

Deride  him  not  ye  scornful  girls. 

With  blooming  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

Those  tears  were  honorably  shed 

As  Anthony's  o'er  Caesar  dead. 

And  know  like  anguish  and  despair 

Your  hearts  may  yet  be  doomed  to  bear. 

As  bends  the  sapling  to  the  blast, 

Yet  stands  erect  when  storms  are  past; 

Sometimes  the  human  soul,  bowed  low 

By  disappointment's  cruel  blow. 

By  firm  resolve  casts  off  the  pain, 

And  stands  erect  and  healed  again. 

Not  so  our  pale-faced  youth.     Love's  dart 

Had  pierced  too  deep  his  wounded  heart: 

And  in  his  struggle  for  relief, 

To  dissipate  the  inward  grief. 

That  plagued  him  more  than  gout  or  phthisic 

Resolved  to  learn  the  art  of  physic. 

And  delve  within  that  mine  of  thought, 


'Till  his  keen  anguish  was  forgot. 

What  trifles  change  the  course  of  life 

From  scenes  of  love  to  toil  and  strife! 

And  eke  from  scenes  of  toil  and  pain. 

To  scenes  of  love  and  peace  again. 

So  the  frail  leaves  of  Autumn,  shed 

Upon  the  streamlets  sandy  bed. 

Resist  the  struggling  currents  force, 

Obstruct  its  way,  and  change  its  course. 

Had  not  the  fates  thus  stepped  between 

Our  hero  and  the  forest  queen, 

Until  the  work  by  love  begun, 

Had  melted  both  hearts  into  one. 

What  different  course  their  lives  had  run. 

Perhaps  our  lover  might  have  stood 

Among  the  chieftains  of  the  wood. 

And  ruled  as  the  superior  mind 

Rules  in  the  councils  of  its  kind: 

Or  else  had  led  the  dusky  maid. 

Timid,  and  shrinking  and  afraid. 

Where  fashions  votaries  held  the  sway, 

In  towns  and  cities  far  away. 

Or,  haply,  they  had  built  their  home 

By  some  lone  stream  where  violets  bloom. 

And  reared  beside  the  quiet  waters, 


115 


A  stately  groupe  of  sons  and  daughters; 
Sons,  in  whose  form  and  martial  mien; 
The  chieftain  grandsire  might  be  seen. 
Some  Randolph,  with  eccentric  mind, 
Keen,  shrewd,  sarcastic  and  refined; 
And  buxom  girls,  with  flaxen  hair. 
And  cheeks  of  dusky  shadow,  where 
The  Saxon  blood  came  mantling  through, 
And  eyes  of  heaven's  serenest  blue. 
But  fane ty  wearies  in  the  chase 
Of  things  that  might  have  taken  place. 
Had  not  the  fates  thus  snapped  the  chain, 
By  Cupid  forged  to  bind  the  twain. 


116 


JOHN  SMITH'S  EPISTLE  TO  KATE. 

Dear  Kate,  as  you  and  [  were  sitting 
Last  evening  by  your  parlor  door: 

While  you  with  busy  hands  were  knitting. 
And  I  was  turning  Wordsworth  o'er 

Once  as  we  hap'd  to  change  a  glance. 
Deep  in  the  chamber  of  your  eye 

I  saw  reclined,  with  bow  and  lance, 
A  winged  Cupid — then  a  sigh 
Rose  from  my  breast;  I  gave  a  start- 
But  ah — he  shot  me  through  the  heart. 

At  first  I  knew  not  what  it  meant: 
I  felt  a  strange  and  nameless  feoling. 

Up  from  my  inmost  bosom  sent: 
And  then  it  seemed  my  wound  was  healing. 
How  queer  the  thought.  (1  can't  hut  smile) 
'Twas  growing  deeper  all  the  while. 
Time  now  has  chased  twelve  hours  away. 
And  brought  the  blushing  dawn  of  day 
Since  Cupid  sent  that  winged  dart. 
That  rankles  in  my  aching  heart. 
And  I  am  sitting  all  alone. 
Beneath  a  shade  tree  on  a  stone, 


17 


I  scarcely  slept  an  hour  all  night; 

I  had  a  thousand  feelings — right 

Or  wrong — -such  as  I  can't  describe, 

They  were  a  long  and  nameless  tribe. 
I  fancied  that  thy  lovely  form. 

Bent  o'er  me  half  a  dozen  times. 
And  then  there  came  a  thunder  storm, 

And  then  I  fell  to  making  ryhmes. 

I  ryhmed  not  of  the  thunder  shower. 

That  shook  the  heavens  in  that  dark  hour; 

Though  it  was  wild  and  fierce  and  strong, 

And  might  inspire  a  poet's  song. 
My  theme  was  not  of  battles  won, 

Or  heroes  slain  on  fields  of  glory- 
It  was  a  tenderer,  sweeter  one, 

Twas  love's  bewitching  story. 
I  never  felt  the  poet's  fire 

Burn  in  my  frosty  soul  before, 
1  never  tried  to  string  a  lyre. 

Or  pluck  the  flowers  Parnassus  bore. 

And  this  is  strange,  'tis  passing  strange. 

That  1  should  meet  with  such  a  change. 

1  said  that  I  was  all  alone. 

Beneath  a  shade  tree  on  a  stone— 

The  heaven  is  clear,  of  azure  hue, 


118 


And  winds,  as  soft  as  ever  blew. 

Breathe  through  the  groves  with  lulling  sound. 

And  bend  the  harvests  all  around. 

O'er  mountain  top,  o'er  rock  and  tree— 

O'er  many  a  vale  and  many  a  blossom: 
Laden  with  sweets  and  melody: 

They  come  to  fan  my  cheek  and  bosom. 
They  seem  celestial  spirits  sent, 
To  bless  me  from  the  firmament. 
A  thousand  insect  wings  are  ringing 
In  the  wide  sky:  and  birds  are  singing 
Amid  the  leafy  woods  of  June. 
A  long,  uncha-nging.  quiet  tune 
Comes  from  a  bed  of  fragrant  roses. 
Where  midst  the  flowers  the  bee  reposes. 
The  vales  in  deep  contentment  lie. 
The  streams  are  shouting  merrily, 
All  nature  round  is  joy  and  gladness, 
While  T,  alas,  am  pained  with  sadness. 
A  want  T  never  felt  before. 
Now  presses  on  me  more  and  more. 

1  feel  the  truth  of  what  some  quizzers 
Have  said  of  man  in  single  life, 

That  he's  but  half  a  pair  of  scissors-  - 
A  useless  tool  without  a  wife. 


119 


My  heart  is  lone  and  desolate, 
To  tell  the  truth  I  want  a  mate. 
I  say  again  'tis  passing  strange, 
Twelve  hours  should  bring  me  such  a  change. 
Now  gentle  Kate,  if  you  and  I, 
Could  journey  on  life's  road  together, 
Methinks  that  many  a  stormy  sky, 
Might  be  exchanged  for  pleasant  weather; 
For  surely  one  so  good  as  you, 
So  kind,  so  gentle,  and  so  true. 
With  those  two  bright  cerulean  eyes, 
Thy  faultiest  form,  thy  cheeks  of  rose, 
Thy  forehead  white  as  mountain  snows, 
Would  make  my  home  a  paradise. 

Then  say.  dear  Kate,  wilt  thou  be  mine? 

' 

Shall  1  be  thine  till  life  is  ended; 

And  shall  our  several  lives  entwine, 
And  be  forever  blended? 
I  close  my  message  with  a  sigh, 
And  wait  in  hope  for  your  reply. 

JACKSONVILLE,  ILL.,  June,  1831. 


120 


A  SUMMEB  MORNING  SCENE. 

Twas  a  bright  morn  in  June,  when  the  leaf  and 

the  flower 

Were  freshest  and  fairest,  I  spent  a  brief  horn- 
On  the  hill  side,  and  gazed  on  the  valleys  around. 
When  all  nature  was  hushed  in  a  slumber  pro 
found. 

So  still  and  so  calm  was  the  air  where  I  stood, 
That  no  murmur  was  heard  through  the  pines 

in  the  wood. 

The  red  fox  had  slunk  to  his  covert  afar, 
Beneath  the  faint  light  of  the  last  waning  star; 
The  birds  were  all  mute,  and  the  cricket's  shrill 

cry, 

And  the  grasshopper's  chirp  were  unheard  in 
the  sky; 

And  the  humble-bee  hung  with  the  dew  on  its 
wing, 

To  the  bloom  of  the  thistle  that  bent  o'er  the 
spring; 

And  no  sound  could  I  hear,  as  I  gazed  far  away, 
But  the  fountains  amid  the  young  blossoms  at 
play. 


121 


0  'twas  .sweet  in  that  hour  of  unbroken  repose, 
When  the  air  was  all  fresh  with  the  scent  of  the 

rose, 
To   gaze   on   the   vales  that  around  me  were 

spread, 
So  still  that  they  seemed  but  the  home  of  the 

dead ; 

And  to  mark  as  the  curtains  of  night  were  with 
drawn, 
And  glory  and  beauty  broke  forth  with  the 

dawn, 

Earth's  numberless  beings  from  slumber  arise, 
And  to  hear  their  glad  voices  ascend  to  the  skies. 
Then  the  winds  woke  apace,  and  the  song  of 

the  bird 
And  the  grey  squirrel's  chirp  in  the  thicket 

were  heard; 
And  the  low  of  the  kine,  and  the  bleat  of  the 

flock, 
As  they  spread  from  the  fold  over  hillock  and 

rock. 

The  yeoman  went  singing  afield  to  his  plow, 
The  waterfowl  swam  on  the  river  below, 
The  swallows  came  darting  athwart  the  blue 

sky, 


122 


And  a  thousand  gay  insects  glanced  merrily  by; 
And  all  things  seemed  joyous  and  lovely  and 

new, 
As  they  broke  from  their  slumbers  and  rose  to 

my  view; 

As  if  the  Creator's  all  life-giving  breath, 
Had  passed  through  the  vale  of  the  shadow  of 

death ; 

And  awakened  anew  to  an  innocent  birth. 
These  beings  of  beauty  to  people  the  earth. 


123 


WRITTEN  AT  CUMMINGTON,  1870. 

How  many  hearts  are  cold, 

That  throbbed  with  wild  delight; 
How  many  eyes  are  dim, 

That  beamed  with  living  light; 
How  many  voices  sweet, 

Are  stilled  forevermore; 
How  many  restless  feet, 

That  trod  from  door  to  door; 
How  many  homes  are  gone, 

That  love  and  beauty  filled ; 
How  many  radiant  hopes, 

Hath  sin  and  sorrow  chilled; 
How  many  hands  that  toiled, 

Are  folded  soft  away; 
How  many  glorious  forms, 

Have  mouldered  back  to  clay, 
Since  first  I  left  these  hills, 

And  made  my  home  afar. 
Where  green  savannas  lie, 

Beneath  the  evening  star. 


124 

Since  then  the  flight  of  time 

Has  borne  me  swiftly  on. 
At  most  a  few  brief  years, 

Shall  pass  ere  I  am  gone. 
Thus  ever  goes  the  old. 

And  ever  conies  the  new, 
The  slender  sapling  springs, 

Where  once  the  old  oak  grew; 
And  nature  striving  still, 

To  heal  the  waste  of  time, 
Clothes  with  new  life  the  earth 

As  in  her  early  prime. 


125 


ON  VISITING  MY  BIRTHPLACE,  MAY,  1866. 

When  death  shall  come,  0  let  me  die, 
Where  these  Avild  steeps  around  me  rise; 

Where  the  green  slopes  and  valleys  lie 
Beneath  these  bright,  blue  mountain  skies. 

For  this  is  my  dear  native  home; 

This  low-roofed  dwelling  once  was  ours, 
This  orchard  bright  with  scented  bloom, 

These  pastures  gay  with  vernal  flowers. 

Here  when  the  land  was  rent  with  strife, 
And  on  the  coast  the  war  cloud  hung, 

These  veins  first  felt  the  pulse  of  life, 
These  lips  first  lisped  the  English  tongue. 

Brothers  and  sisters  nestled  here 

Beneath  the  kind  parental  sway; 
And  here  through  many  a  passing  year 

Love,  peace  and  joy  were  round  my  way. 

Now  three  score  years  of  life  are  past, 
The  hair  is  silvered  on  my  brow; 

And  shadows  o'er  my  way  are  cast- 
Life's  evening  shadows  even  now. 


12f> 


What  though  beneath  a  milder  sky, 
Broad  fields  of  waving  wheat  were  mine— 

And  tasseled  maize  and  bearded  rye, 
And  steeds  and  flocks  and  herds  of  kine. 

Or  what  if  mine  were  princely  state, 
And  lofty  towers  and  airy  halls; 

Or  marble  pile  with  moated  gate, 
And  gilded  dome  and  pictured  walls. 

These  could  not  compensate  the  heart, 
For  childhood's  haunts  and  home  of  rest; 

No  solace  to  the  soul  impart, 

To  fill  the  void  within  my  breast. 

For  still  my  spirit  fondly  clings 

To  these  loved  hills,  though  wild  and  stern 
And  every  passing  season  brings 

A  deeper  yearning  to  return. 

And  when  life's  few  brief  years  are  gone, 
I  would  my  dim  and  fading  eye. 

Might  cast  a  loving  look  upon 
My  native  home,  my  native  sky. 


127 


A  FRAGMENT. 

Light  of  my  home,  light  of  my  heart, 
Dear  maid  so  gentle  and  so  fair, 

So  free  from  every  stain  or  art, 
So  lovely  and  so  debonair. 

How  shall  I  treat  thee  as  I  ought, 
How  render  the  affection  due; 

How  clothe  with  fitting  words  my  thought 
Of  one  so  beautiful  and  true, 

And  not  affect  the  flatterer's  role, 

And  not  awaken  deep  within 
The  inner  chambers  of  thy  soul, 

A  vanity  allied  to  sin? 


128 


UNCERTAINTY. 

Life's  mystery  I  cannot  solve. 

Nor  can  I  from  my  mind  root  out 

The  painful  vestiges  of  doubt 
That  human  destiny  involve. 

Said  one  of  wisest  thought  possessed; 
"Man  yields  his  life,  and  where  is  he?" 
Ah!  where?  I  cry,  but  unto  me 

There  comes  no  answer  to  the  quest. 

I  would  not  tread  forbidden  ground, 
Nor  seek  for  that  I  may  not  know, 
Nor  strive  beyond  the  line  to  go 

Where  wisdom's  self  has  fixed  the  bound. 

The  shadows  that  obscure  my  way, 
I  fondly  hope  may  one  day  lift. 
When  calmly  through  the  opening  rift 

These  eyes  shall  see  the  perfect  day. 

God  cares  for  all;  without  His  will 
There  falls  no  sparrow  to  the  ground. 
All  souls  in  His  great  love  are  bound, 

That  love  will  all  its  aims  fulfill. 


129 


SONNET. 

I  saw  a  preacher  in  the  house  of  God, 

With  frantic  gestures  and  in  accents  loud, 

And  words  profane  he  spread  his  hands  abroad 

And  poured  anathemas  upon  the  crowd  ! 

His  speech  was  set  with  many  a  phrase  uncouth, 

And  frivolous  remark  and  common  jest; 

A  mixture  strange  of  folly  and  of  truth, 

With  fierce  denunciation  for  the  rest. 

Is  this,  I  thought  while  listening  to  his  strains, 

A  follower  of  the  meek  and  lowly  One  ? 

Are  these  the  accents  heard  on  Bethlehem's 

plains, 

When  angels  hailed  the  birth  of  Mary's  Son  ? 
Is  this  the  Gospel  sent  us  from  above 
Whose  words  are  peace  and  charity  and  love  ? 


THE  OUTCAST. 

Matron  with  the  faded  form, 

Wasted,  bowed,  but  not  with  years, 

Thine  hath  been  a  path  of  storm— 
Thine  has  been  a  vale  of  tears. 

Where  New  England's  hills  arise, 
Glorious  from  the  ocean  brine, 

Thou  did'st  ope"  thine  infant  eyes, 
Peace  and  competence  were  thine. 

There  the  broad  green  pastures  lay, 
There  the  orchard  spread  its  bloom, 

Woodland,  stream,  and  meadow  gay, 
Circled  round  thy  mountain  home. 

Late  I  saw  thee  but  a  child, 
Playful,  prattling,  full  of  glee; 

On  thy  steps  a  mother  smiled, 
Danced  upon  a  father's  knee. 


Then  a  stately  maiden  grown, 
Raven  tresses  round  thy  brow, 

Cheeks  like  summer  roses  blown, 
None  more  beautiful  than  thou. 

Heart  all  innocent  and  gay, 
Full  of  feeling,  full  of  truth, 

Oh,  how  soon  hath  passed  away 
All  the  glory  of  thy  youth. 

Edward  sought  thy  hand  and  won  thee, 
Generous,  beautiful,  and  brave, 

Noble  Edward  hath  undone  thee. 
Who  shall  heal  the  wounds  he  gave. 

Tempted  from  thy  guardian  side. 
Pleasure's  boisterous  sons  among. 

Poisoned  by  the  cup  he  died. 
With  a  curse  upon  his  tongue. 

Then  the  babe  upon  thy  bosom, 
Wasting,  sinking  day  by  day. 

Like  a  trembling  April  blossom. 
Passed  its  little  life  away. 


132 

One  by  one  thy  friends  departed, 
Father,  mother,  all  are  gone, 

Thou  a  widow,  broken  hearted, 
Wanderest  through  the  world  alone. 

Born  to  wealth,  to  honor  born. 

These  like  morning  dews  are  fled, 
Child  of  poverty  and  scorn. 

Who  shall  stay  thy  sinking  head? 

Bitter  tears  have  blanched  thy  cheek. 
Keenest  anguish  wrung  thy  breast, 

Sad  and  sorrowful,  and  weak. 
Soon  the  grave  shall  give  thee  rest. 


133 


THE  APPROACH  OF  AGE. 

Gone  are  the  friends  my  boyhood  knew, 
Gone  three  score  years  since  childhood's  morn; 

A  lonely  stalk  I  stand,  where  grew 
And  proudly  waved  the  summer  corn. 

Scanning  the  record  of  my  years, 
How  blank,  how  meagre  seems  the  page; 

How  small  the  sum  of  good  appears 

Wrought  by  these  hands  from  youth  to  age. 

Yet,  'midst  the  toils  and  cares  of  life, 
I've  tried  to  keep  a  cheerful  heart; 

To  curb  my  fiercer  passions'  strife, 
And  as  a  man  to  act  my  part. 

And  I  repine  not  at  my  lot. 

Glad  to  have  lived  in  times  like  these, 
When  mystic  cords  of  human  thought 

Bind  realm  to  realm  across  the  seas. 


184 


When  this  dear  land.  Time's  latest  birth, 
Strikes  every  chain  from  human  hands, 

And  'midst  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
The  greatest,  freest,  noblest  stands. 

When  progress  in  material  things 
Leads  upward  immaterial  mind. 

And  into  nearer  prospect  brings 
The  perfect  life  of  all  mankind. 

Kindly,  as  yet,  life's  autumn  sun 

Gilds  the  green  precincts  of  my  home ; 

Softly,  though  fast,  the  moments  run, 
And  fleeting  seasons  go  and  come. 

Yet  nearer  moans  the  wintry  blast. 

The  chilling  wind  of  Age  that  blows, 
Through  darkening  skies  with  cloud  o'ercast, 

With  blinding  sleet  and  drifting  snows. 

Ho!  gleaner  on  life's  wintry  lea. 

T  hear  the  steps  'mid  rustling  leaves. 
And  soon  this  withered  stalk  will  be 

Close  garnered  with  the  autumn  sheaves. 


135 

And  then  will  He,  beneath  whose  eye 
Each  act  of  right  and  wrong  appears. 

Aught  of  untarnished  grain  descry 
Among  these  husks  of  wasted  years? 

Haply  these  mustering  clouds  that  lower 
On  the  low  sky  in  seeming  wrath 

May  vanish,  and  life's  sunset  hour, 
Shed  a  calm  radiance  o'er  my  path. 

Then  may  the  clear  horizon  bring 
Those  glorious  summits  to  the  eye, 

Where,  flanked  by  fields  of  endless  Spring, 
The  Cities  of  the  Bleesed  lie. 


136 


SONG  OF  LABOR. 

We  sing  the  song  of  the  farmer. 

Who  tills  the  stubborn  soil, 
And  feeds  earth's  countless  millions 

With  the  fruits  of  his  patient  toil. 

He  rises  at  early  dawning, 
Nor  stays  with  the  setting  sun, 

But  toils  'till  the  twilight  deepens, 
Ere  the  work  of  the  day  is  done. 

He  reaps  the  golden  wheatfield,— 
And  tends  the  tasseled  maize. 

And  plucks  the  ripened  fruitage, 
In  the  frosty  autumn  days. 

To  him  all  look  for  succor, 

On  him  the  nations  lean, 
And  yet  no  slave  or  pauper 

By  the  proud,  is  thought  more  mean. 


137 

In  his  country's  hour  of  peril, 
He  is  first  in  the  deadly  fray, 

Filling  the  ranks  with  heroes, 
And  sweeping  her  foes  away. 

Would  the  toiler  be  a  freeman, 

He  must  rise  in  strength  and  might, 

Stand  with  a  front  undaunted 
And  vindicate  his  right. 

He  must  leave  old  party  leaders; 

They  care  not  for  him  a  straw, 
Only  to  wrong  and  rob  him, 

Under  the  color  of  law. 

He  must  vote  for  honest  rulers, 
Who  will  give  him  honest  laws, 

For  men  whose  hearts  are  with  him, 
And  love  a  righteous  cause. 

Then  awake,  ye  sons  of  labor, 
The  day  and  the  hour  have  come 

To  break  old  party  shackles, 
And  stand  for  hearth  and  home. 


138 


THE  HILLS  OF  PARADISE. 

Each  moment,  Lord  of  might, 

Before  thy  mighty  breath, 
What  myriads  spring  to  life  and  light, 

What  myriads  fall  in  death. 

The  broad  full  stream  flows  on, 

Forevermore  the  same; 

All  coming  from  the  dim  unknown, 
All  going  whence  they  came. 

Does  then  the  grave  hold  all 

In  its  insatiate  deep  ? 
Is  the  last  summons  but  a  call 

To  an  eternal  sleep  ? 

Nay,  put  thy  trust  in  God, 
And  faith  shall  ope  thine  eyes, 

To  see  before  thee  fair  and  broad, 
The  hills  of  Paradise. 


J39 


Beyond  the  dark  abyss, 
Shall  loom  the  radiant  shore — 

Heaven's  boundless  realm  of  love  and  bliss. 
Where  grief  is  known  no  more. 

Where  the  Good  Shepherd  brings, 

His  fair  unnumbered  flock, 
To  pastures  ever  fresh,  and  springs 

Fed  from  the  Eternal  Rock. 

Tents  where  the  patriarchs  rest, 
Temples,  vast,  high  and  broad, 

On  whose  grand  structure  is  impressed, 
The  handiwork  of  Grod. 

And  homes,  where  loved  ones  gone, 

On  the  resplendent  height, 
Clothed  in  the  brightness  of  the  dawn, 

Dwell  in  supreme  delight. 


HYMN. 

Upon  the  nation's  heart, 

A  mighty  burden  lies  ; 
Two  hundred  years  of  crime  and  tears, 

Of  anguish,  groans  and  sighs. 

How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long  ! 

Crushed,  trampled,  peeled  and  dumb  ; 
Shall  thy  bound  children  suffer  wrong, 

And  no  deliverer  come  ? 

The  eternal  years  sweep  on— 

Age  after  age,  goes  by- 
Still  waits  the  slave  the  breaking  dawn. 

The  day-spring  from  on  high. 

"How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long  !" 
When  shall  that  cry  to  Thee, 

Be  lost  in  freedom's  glorious  song ; 
And  shouts  of  jubilee  ? 


A  swift,  awakening  thrill, 

Send  through  the  nation's  heart ; 

Make  quick  the  conscience,  pure  the  will, 
And  love  of  right  impart. 

Hasten,  0  Lord,  the  hour, 

For  which  we  wait  and  pray  ; 
When  Thy  resistless  breath  of  power, 

Shall  sweep  the  curse  away. 

If  men  refuse,  0  God, 

To  set  the  captives  free  ; 
Break  as  of  old  the  oppressors'  rod, 

And  give  them  liberty. 

As  Jesus  from  the  tomb, 

The  buried  Lazarus  led  ; 
Rend  Thou  the  slaves'  deep  night  of  gloom, 

Oh,  raise  him  from  the  dead. 

Written  1858. 


142 


DEATH  OF  LINCOLN. 

"Make  way  for  liberty/'  cried  Winkelried, 
And  gathered   to    his   breast   the    Austrian 

spears. 

Fired  with  fresh  valor  at  the  glorious  deed. 
O'er  the  dead  hero  rushed  those  mountain 
eers 

To  victory  and  freedom.     Even  so 
Our  dear,   good   Lincoln   fell    in    freedom's 

cause. 
And  while  our  hearts  are  pierced  with  keenest 

woe, 

Lo,  the  black  night  of  slavery  withdraws, 
And  liberty's  bright  dawn  breaks  o'er  the  land. 
Four    million    bondmen,    held    in    helpless 

thrall, 

Loosed  by  his  word,  in  nature's  manhood  stand, 

And  the  sweet  sun  of  peace  shines  over  all. 

The  blood   that  stained  the   martyr's   simple 

robe 
Woke  the  deep  sympathies  of  half  the  globe. 


143 


DROUGHT. 

Not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  but  a  brassy  haze, 
Through  which  the  sun  glares  hot  and  red, 

Day  after  day,  these  long  June  days, 
'Till  the  grass  is  withered  and  the  flowers 
are  dead. 

I  sit  by  my  home  and  gaze  away, 

For  some  sign  of  rain  in  the  burning  sky- 
Some  mist,  or  cloud,  or  vapor  gray, 

Till  the  daylight  fades  on  my  weary  eye. 

The  birds  that  sang  by  my  door  have  flown, 
The  bluebird,  the  oriole  and  wren, 

Even  the  robin  that  steals  my  cherries  has  gone, 
To  the  cooler  shade  o'er  the  brook  in  the  glen. 

The  maize  plant  droops  in  the  mid  day  sun, 

But  rallies  at  eventide  again; 
Looking  up  to  heaven  when  day  is  done, 

And  sighs  in  the  wind  as  if  sighing  for  rain. 


144 


From  the  bosom  of  earth  goes  up  a  sigh, 
From  every  living  thing  a  plaint; 

The  leaves  on  the  shrubs  are  crisp  and  dry, 
And  the  mighty  woods  look  sick  and  faint. 

0!  for  the  faith  and  prayer  of  Him, 
Who  bowed  upon  Carmel's  mount  of  yore; 

When  rose  on  the  far  horizon's  rim, 
The  little  cloud  with  its  priceless  store. 

"But  those  times  of  undoubting  faith  are  past," 
Men  say,  "And  the  age  of  law  has  come, 

Trust  in  the  Lord  is  waning  fast, 
And  His  prophets  of  power  are  dead  or  dumb." 

Written  June,  1871. 


145 


DAYS  AT  NASSAU. 

From  forests  brown  with  winter,  from  valleys 

clad  in  snow. 
We  sailed  for  the  Bahamas,  where  the  lime  and 

orange  grow; 
Four  days  the  ocean  tempests,  around  our  good 

ship  rave, 
The  fifth  we  saw  the  palm  trees  in  summer 

breezes  wave. 
With  fainting  hearts,  yet  thankful,  we  leave 

the  stormy  main, 
Glad  on  the  fair  earth's  bosom  to   plant  our 

feet  again. 
0  fair  and  lovely  Island,  with  skies  of  tenderest 

hue, 
Girt  round  with  sparkling  waters  of  amethyst 

and  blue; 
No  frost  winds  blight  your  blossoms,  no  winter 

snows  come  here, 

But  one  eternal  summer  encircles  all  the  year 
Amid  this  bloom  and  verdure — airs  like  our 

August  wind. 


146 


I  cannot  feel  'tis  winter,  at  the  home  T  left 

behind: 
That  there   through    leafless  woodlands — o'er 

meadows  Meak  and  l>n>\vn. 
The  cold  north  winds  are  sweeping,  and  snows 

are  sifting  down. 
Would  then  I  leave  forever  my  Northern  home 

for  this? 
To  seek  on  this  green  Island  a  home  of  purer 

bliss? 
Oh  no!  ah  no!  far  better  that  sterner  clime  of 

ours, 
Which  stirs  the  soul  to  action  and  quickens  all 

its  powers. 
The  stronger  life  for  labor  and  swifter  flow  of 

blood. 
Which  bear  this  great  world  onward,  toward 

the  perfect  good. 
These  bright  and  peaceful   waters,  in  ruder, 

darker  times. 
Have  witnessed   deeds  of  danim.   and  -ceiies  of 

bloody  crimes. 
0  never  be  this  beauty  by  bloodshed  marred 

again, 
But  peace  with  all  earth's  nations  forevermore 

remain. 


147 


And  as  the  generations  of  men  shall  rise  and 
fall 

Through  all  the  passing  ages,  may  love  rule 
over  all. 

Here  may  the  weak  and  sinking,  with  hopeful 
courage  come, 

And  here  the  faint  and  weary  still  find  a  wel 
come  home. 

I  know  the  lime  and  orange,  blossom  and  ripen 
here ; 

I  know  that  endless  summer  attends  the  smil 
ing  year ; 

But  scenes  of  brighter  splendor  have  met  my 

raptured  eye, 
Where  round  my  own  loved  dwelling,  the  green 

savannas  lie  ; 
There  are  my  dear,  my  loved  ones,  far  o'er  the 

dark  blue  sea, 
And  thou  my  glorious  country,  my  heart  is  still 

with  thee. 


148 


SAD  NEWS  FROM  HOME. 


Written  at  Havana,  while  on  my  return  from  Mexico,  March 
24,1872,  on  receiving  news  of  the  death  of  my  grandson,  John 
Howard  Bryant: 

A  sudden  wail  of  sorrow  across  the  deep  has 

come, 
The  brightest  gem  has  faded  that  lit  my  distant 

home. 
One  beautiful  and  lovely,  to  whom  my  name 

was  given, 
With  cheeks  like  summer  roses,  and  eyes  as 

blue  as  heaven; 
And  I  am  grieved  to  weeping,  that  one  I  thought 

to  press, 
Soon   to  this   throbbing  bosom,  with  many  a 

sweet  caress, 
Is  laid  away  in  darkness  beneath  the  wasting 

snow, 
No  more  my  smile  to  answer,  no  more  my  love 

to  know. 


149 


No  more  his  gentle  footfall  shall  patter  on  the 

floor, 
No  more  his  call  at  morning,  be  heard  beside 

my  door. 
His  vacant  chair  at  table,  the  bed  wherein  he 

lay 
And  breathed  in  helpless  anguish  his  little  life 

away, 
His  garments  and  the  baubles  with  which  he 

used  to  play; 
All  these  are  sad  reminders  of  one  that's  gone 

for  aye. 
How  large  the  place  made  vacant,  and  how 

severe  the  blow. 
That  smote  our  hearts  with  anguish,  none  but 

ourselves  can  know. 


150 


AUTUMN. 

Loveliest  season  of  the  year, 
Meek  and  modest,  brown  and  sere, 
With  a  mild  and  quiet  eye, 
With  a  soft  and  sunny  sky, 
Treading  gently  o'er  the  glade, 
On  departed  summer's  shade, 
Painting  all  the  forest  leaves 
With  the  hues  the  rainbow  weaves; 
How  I  love  thee  in  thy  prime, 
Golden,  blessed  Autumn  time. 


Village  school-boy  searching  o'er 
All  the  rustling  forest's  floor, 
(lathers  wild  grapes  from  the  tree, 
Whitest  nuts  of  hickory, 
Hazel  nut  and  walnut  rare, 
Yellow  as  the  summer  pear, „ 
Making  glad  with  shout  and  song. 
All  the  woodland  all  day  long; 
And  the  squirrel  glad  and  gay, 
In  the  warm  sun's  setting  ray, 
Frisking  round  the  old  oak  tree, 
Gathers  nuts  as  well  as  he. 
Sauntering  down  the  deep  ravine, 


151 

Oft  the  dreaming  youth  is  seen, 
Watching  shadows  as  they  pass 
O'er  the  falling  leaves  and  grass, 
Sitting  by  the  streamlet's  side, 
Gazing  on  its  restless  tide, 
Listening  to  the  mellow  note 
Swelling  from  the  wild  swan's  throat, 
Sounding  as  she  soars  on  high 
Like  a  trumpet  in  the  sky. 
Gentle  dreamer,  wander  on, 
Till  thy  dream  of  life  is  done; 
Let  no  darker  shade  be  cast 
On  thy  path,  or  ruder  blast 
Greet  thee  than  the  Autumn  day 
Throws  around  thy  woodland  way. 


Now  the  farmer  gathers  in 
Summer's  fruits  with  merry  din, 
Plucking  through  the  sunny  days 
Glistening  ears  of  ripened  maize; 
Gathering  from  the  orchard  bough, 
With  its  burden  bending  low, 
Fruits  as  ruddy  and  as  sleek 
As  the  blooming  maiden's  cheek; 
Fruits  to  cheer  the  taste  and  sight, 
In  the  long,  long  winter  night, 
When  around  the  blazing  hearth, 
Neighbors  meet  with  cheerful  mirth. 


152 


THREE  SONNETS. 

I. 
"  I  walk  bewildered  in  the  shadows  here  ; 

Few  are  the  friendly  lights  along  the  way ; 
'Mid  doubt,  uncertainty  and  chilling  fear, 

I  strain  my  eye  to  catch  the  dawning  day. 
There  are,  upon  whose  path  a  broadening  ray 

Falls  from  the  land  to  which  their  loved 

are  gone, 
A  glorious  stair  to  regions  far  away, 

And  angel  spirits  come  and  go  thereon. 
0  God,  my  Father !  rend  the  misty  shroud 

That  overhangs  me  like  the  midnight  air, 
Or  let  some  message  from  beyond  the  cloud 

Reveal  the  fate,  the  life,  that  waits  me  there ; 
0  let  my  faith  be  knowledge,  blindness  sight, 
This  dark  uncertainty  unclouded  light." 

II. 
'Twas  thus  my  friend,  in  earnest  accents  said, 

Her  gentle  bosom  heaving  with  a  sigh. 
A  sudden  glow  her  palid  cheeks  o'erspread, 

A  heavenly  light  came  beaming  from  her  eye, 
She  stretched  her  feeble  hands,  and  looked  on 
high, 


153 


The  glow,  the  light,  were  brighter  than  before; 
"  The  morning  dawns,"  I  heard  her  faintly  cry, 

And  then  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  no  more. 
The  halo  and  the  brightness  passed  away  ; 

Her  hands  were  still,  her  lips  had  ceased  to 

move  ; 
Yet  on  her  wan,  unconscious  features  lay 

The  sweet,calm  smile  of  perfect  peace  and  love; 
God  for  her  spirit  rent  the  misty  shroud  ; 
Her  faith  is  changed  to  sight  beyond  the  cloud. 

III. 
Friends  weep  around,  believing  she  is  dead. 

'Tis  but  a  trance —  a  syncope — no  more. 
The  soul,  the  vital  part,  awhile  has  fled, 

And  treads  enraptured  the  celestial  floor. 
For  now  a  rustling  sound  is  in  the  room  ; 

Dim  shadows  pass  the  threshold  and  depart ; 
The  light  of  hope  dispels  the  funeral  gloom, 

And  joy  returns  to  many  a  sorrowing  heart. 
For  look  !  her  eyelids  tremble,  and  a  tear 

Glides  o'er  the  enamel  of  that  stainless  cheek; 
Faint  hues  of  crimson  on  the  lips  appear, 

That,  quivering,  part  as  if  about  to  speak. 
Her  soft  eyes  open  with  a  cry  of  pain, 
And  Dorcas  sits  among  her  friends  again. 


154 


AUTUMNAL   EVENINGS. 

There  is  a  lovely  autumn  eve,  when  all  the 

winds  are  still, 
Save  a  low  murmur  through  the  vale  and  on 

the  woody  hill, 
When  groves  are  yellow,  and  the  leaves  are 

falling  carelessly 
Along  the  road  side  from  the  boughs  of  ash  and 

linden  tree; 

When  stars  are  fewT  and  fleecy  clouds  are  float 
ing  through  the  sky, 
On  gales  unfelt,  unheard  below,  where  night's 

dim  shadows  lie; 
When  from  the  distant  lonely  wood,  the  gray 

owl's  whoop  is  heard, 
Where  perches  o'er  the  mountain  stream  that 

solitary  bird; 
And  in  the  orchard  by  the  way,  with  hollow 

unchanged  sound, 
The  mellow  apples,  one  by  one,  are  dropping  to 

the  ground. 


155 


0  sweetly  then  the  mountain  wind  skims  o'er 

the  rustling  corn, 
And  on  the  high  blue  heaven  the  moon  hangs 

out  her  yellow  horn; 
Then  pass  life's  pains  and  cares  away,  and  pride 

and  flattery's  art, 
And  calm,  pure  feelings,  in  that  hour  slide 

gently  on  the  heart. 
And  there's  a  wilder  autumn  eve  that  has  a 

thrilling  power. 
The  blood  runs  cold  and  the  full  heart  beats 

wildly  in  that  hour; 
Tis  when  the  loud  winds   of  the  north  are 

shrieking  in  the  sky, 
And  the  dry  leaves  upon  his  wings  are  whirling 

swiftly  by, 
When  o'er  the  wide  plain,  bleak  and  sere,  comes 

the  heath  fox's  bay. 

And  'tis  answered  by  the  startled  cur  that  slum 
bered  far  away; 
When  the  tall  forest  on  the  hill  that  overlooks 

the  vale 

Is  bowing  to  the  mighty  gust,  like  reeds  in  sum 
mer's  gale. 
And  the  wide  heavens  are  dark  with  clouds, 

and  twinkling  oft  between 


156 


As  they  sweep  rapidly  along,  the  diamond  stars 

are  seen. 
0,  there's  a  power  that  overrules  the  rushing 

tempest's  might, 
And  with  His  kindly  presence  fills  the  stillest, 

calmest  night; 
Who  lifts  the  curtains  of  the  dawn  and  gives 

the  noontide  birth, 
And  drops  the  gentle  wing  of  sleep,  upon  the 

weary  earth. 


157 


LINES  WITHOUT  NAME. 

"Long  have  I  loved  what  I  behold, 
The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers; 
The  common  growth  of  mother  earth 

Suffices  me — her  tears,  her  mirth 

Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

—  Wordsworth. 

Old  age  is  stealing  o'er  me  fast,  for  wrinkled  is 

my  brow, 
And  here  and  there  upon  my  head  are  gray 

hairs  even  now, 
And  soon  will  life  be  o'er  with  me,  and  I  shall 

slumber  then, 
And  other  feet  will  follow  on  the  track  where 

mine  have  been. 

Though  manhood's  years  of  cares  and  fears, 
have  not  the  glorious  hue, 

The  thrill  of  joy  and  wild  romance,  my  early 
childhood  knew— 

Yet  'twill  be  hard  to  leave  thy  scenes,  0,  beau 
tiful  green  earth, 

Still  drest  in  all  the  loveliness  that  dawned 
upon  thy  birth. 


15S 


How  can  I  bid  farewell  to  things  that  I  have 

known  so  long, 
To  which  my  inmost  heart  is  bound  with  fetters 

fast  and  strong! 
The  play-place  of  my  early  days,  the  streamlet 

by  my  door, 
And  all  the  pleasant  haunts  of  youth  I  knew 

and  loved  before. 

The  wide  range  o'er  the  mountain    top,  the 

homes  of  men  around, 
The    deep    untrodden    woodland    shades,    the 

blooming  orchard  ground; 
The  ripple  of  the  running  brook,  the  music  of 

the  breeze, 
That  sighs  along  the  grassy  glade  and  whispers 

in  the  trees; 

The  spring  that  comes  with  song  and  bloom,  to 

gladden  all  the  plain, 
The    ruddy    fruits    that  crown    the    hills   in 

autumn's  golden  reign; 
All  these  my  yearning   heart  must  leave,  and 

pass  from  earth  away, 
Though  dear  the  links  that  bind  me  here  they 

cannot  last  for  aye. 


159 


I've  danced   my    children  on  my  knee,   and 

kissed  their  sleeping  eyes, 
Aud  when  they  smiled,  their  smiles  to  me  were 

bright  as  summer  skies. 
As  time    passed  on,  my  love  waxed  strong,  I 

felt  a  father's  pride, 
As  they  grew  up  in  manly  strength  and  beauty 

by  my  side. 


And  gladness  sometimes  lights  my  eye,  to  see 

them  round  my  hearth, 
The  pillars  of  my  fading  age,  fair  forms  and 

hearts  of  mirth; 
But  icy  chills  run  o'er  my  frame,  even  now  in 

life's  calm  noon, 
To  know  my  glass  is  wasting  fast,  and  I  must, 

leave  them  soon. 

0,  I  have  lov'd  from  boyhood  up,  on  this  fair 

earth  to  look, 
And   manjr  a  lesson   deep  have  learn'd  from 

nature's  open  book, 
Amidst  her  calm  and  lonely  scenes,  where  all 

was  silentness, 
Strong  thoughts  have  struggled  in  my  breast, 

I  cannot  half  express; 


160 


And  childhood's  mirth,   and  woman's  smiles, 

and  manhood's  noble  frame, 
Are  images  from  which  arise,  feelings  of  holier 

name. 
Strong  is  my  love  for  earth's  glad  scenes,  and 

strong  the  ties  that  bind 
My  sinking  spirit  to  the  friends  that  I  shall 

leave  behind, 
And  when  at  last  the  hour  is  come,  to  bow  my 

head  and  die, 
A 'tear  for  nature  and  for  man,  will  tremble 

in  my  eye. 


161 


TO  H.— 1831. 

0,  thou  who  dwell'st  at  Springfield  city, 
And  charm'st  us  with  thy  weekly  ditty, 
Who  o'er  the  wide,  wide  sea  hast  flown,— 
To  make  our  lovely  land  thine  own, 
Thou  askest  of  a  brother  Bard 
That  which  he  deems  severe  and  hard; 
A  task  to  which  he  will  demur,— 
A  song  in  praise  of  Mauvaiseterre ; 
For  he's  been  thinking  all  along,— 
That  neither  stream  is  worth  a  song. 
Though  its  smooth  winding  banks  are  rich, 
Our  Mauvaiseterre's  a  muddy  ditch, 
Save  a  slight  ripple  where  the  hills 
Hem  in  its  bed  at  Egypt's  mills. 
And  then,  methinks  your  Sangamo 
Has  not  a  rock  to  break  its  flow, 
But  glides  along  with  sluggish  pace, 
With  scarce  a  dimple  on  its  face. 
No  glade  of  blossoms  ope  beside  it, 
But  forest  shadows  ever  hide  it. 
Such  streams  as  these,  I'm  bold  to  say, 
Can  never  warm  my  simple  lay. 
Your  silver  Thames  I  ne'er  have  seen, 


162 


Its  populous  town,  its  banks  of  green; 
Nor  Clrongar's  summit  "  clothed  with  wood," 
Whose  feet  are  deep  in  Towy's  flood, 
Where  the  eye  moves  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
"  Till  contemplation  has  her  fill." 
Nor  rocky  Ouse,  by  Cowper  sung, 
That  winds  the  pleasant  hills  among; 
Nor  Avon,  where  at  night's  calm  noon, 
The  fairies  danced  beneath  the  moon, 
Nor  banks  nor  braes  of  Bonny  Doon; 
Nor  Ayr's,  nor  Thevi's  crystal  tide, 
That  Scotia's  rugged  steeps  divide. 
But  then  I  know  that  many  a  stream 
As  worthy  of  poetic  theme, 
As  bright  as  beautiful  and  bland 
Adorns  my  own  beloved  land. 
0,  who  can  stand  by  Hudson's  shore, 
And  scan  her  bright  blue  bosom  o'er, 
And  see  not  there  a  glorious  view, 
And  fair  as  pencil  ever  drew, 
Majestic  mingled  with  the  mild, 
The  rocky  steep  abrupt  and  wild; 
Outstretched  the  smooth  and  level  lawn, 
The  glades  among  the  hills  withdrawn; 
The  towns  that  by  its  waters  spring, 
And  vessels  borne  on  snowy  wing. 


163 


What  though  no  mossy,  mouldering  tower, 
The  ivied  seat  of  ancient  power, 
With  iron  gates  whose  hinges  clank, 
Frowns  o'er  the  beauty  of  its  bank; 
For  in  the  pure,  cool  upper  air 
Hath  nature  built  her  temples  there; 
And  there  in  hoary  grandeur  stand 
Huge  pillars*  fashioned  by  her  hand. 
But  still  a  lovelier  streamf  is  found 
Within  New  England's  rocky  bound, 
With  softer  beauty  spread  around. 
I've  stood  upon  the  mountain's  brow 
That  overlooks  the  vale  below; 
Outspread  a  lovely  region  lay, 
The  river  winding  far  away; 
The  village  spires  that  brightly  gleam 
In  the  great  sun's  reflected  beam; 
The  long  dark  rows  of  planted  maize, 
The  herds  that  on  the  pastures  graze; 
And  on  the  slopes  the  scattered  flocks, 
And  torrents  dashing  down  the  rocks; 
And  gladness  seemed  the  reigning  queen, 
Of  that  broad  vale  so  bright  and  green; 
And  lesser  streams,  without  a  name, 
Unknown  to  poetry  or  fame, 

*Palisades,  fConnecticut. 


That  spring  among  the  mountains  high. 
And  dash  in  tameless  freedom  by; 
And  rivulets  and  gushing  rills. 
That  gladden  my  dear  native  hills; 
And  sweeter  than  all  named  before, 
The  fountain  by  my  mother's  door. 
I  look  upon  the  Mauvaiseterre, 
And  think  of  these  bright  streams  afar; 
I  look,  and  turn  away  my  eye, 
And  pass  its  wave  unheeded  by. 
Haply  in  after  years  may  rise, 
A  bard  its  loveliness  to  prize ; 
Whose  bosom  at  its  hard  French  name, 
Will  kindle  with  seraphic  flame; 
And  who  shall  pour  his  rapturous  lay 
Along  its  devious,  slimy  way. 
And  shed  a  classic  beauty  o'er 
The  scenery  of  its  weedy  shore. 
And  here  may  dwell  in  coming  ages, 
Romantic  youth  and  hoary  sages; 
And  College  sophs  here  try  their  art, 
To  gain  with  song  the  fair  one's  heart. 
But  I  have  naught  of  sympathy, 
0,  Mauvaiseterre,  for  such  as  thee; 
Thou  canst  not  waken  wild  and  strong, 
The  spirit  of  unstudied  song. 


165 

UPWARD,   ONWARD. 

Upward,  Onward  are  our  watchwords, 
Let  the  winds  blow  good  or  ill; 

Though  the  skies  be  calm  or  stormy. 
These  shall  be  our  watchwords  still. 

Upward,  Onward  in  the  battle, 
Wa,ged  for  freedom  and  the  right; 

Never  resting,  never  weary, 
Till  a  victory  crowns  the  fight. 

Waking  every  morn  to  duty, 
Ere  the  daylight  fades  away; 

Let  some  deed  for  human  progress, 
Crown  the  labors  of  the  day. 

Upward,  Onward,  pressing  forward, 

'Till  monoplies  shall  fall: 
'Till  the  flag  that  floats  above  us 

Equal  rights  proclaims  to  all. 

Lo!  a  better  day  is  dawning, 
Brighter  prospects  ope  before; 

Spread  your  banner  to  the  breezes, 
Upward,  Onward,  evermore. 


166 


WELCOME  TO  THE  RETURNED  VETERANS, 

1S63. 

Welcome  home  our  gallant  brothers, 
Welcome  home  ye  brave  and  true; 

Rebel  hordes  had  trod  these  prairies, 
But  for  you  and  such  as  you. 

But  for  you  our  peaceful  dwellings 

Had  been  cold  and  desolate; 
But  for  you  the  scourge  and  gibbet, 

Fire  and  sword  had  been  our  fate. 

Through  the  long  and  weary  marches; 

Through  the  watches  of  the  night; 
Oft  times  pressed  with  cold  and  hunger, 

You  have  kept  your  honor  bright, 

We  are  proud  this  day  to  meet  you. 
Proud  the  banquet  board  to  spread; 

Proud  with  heart  and  hand  to   greet  you. 
Pouring  blessings  on  your  head. 


167 

Fearless  in  the  hour  of  conflict, 
Bureau's  sons  a  dauntless  band, 

Ever  met  the  rebel  cohorts,. 
Breast  to  breast  and  hand  to  hand. 


Bureau  boys  at  bloody  Shiloh, 
Pea  Ridge,  Gibson,  Donelson, 

Corinth,  Vicksburg,  Raymond,  Jackson, 
Fought  the  rebel  foe  and  won. 

Champion  Hill  and  Chattanooga, 
Saw  them  foremost  in  the  fight, 

Pouring  out  their  blood  like  water 
For  their  country,  truth  and  right. 

Let  us  call  up  for  a  moment, 
The  brave  spirits  gone  before  ; 

Call  to  mind  with  deepest  reverence, 
Those  our  eyes  shall  see  no  more. 

Noble,  brave,  heoric  Ferris, 
Frank  in  nature  as  in  name  ; 

Page,  large  hearted,  Seaman,  Gordon  ; 
Stalwart  Swain  of  iron  frame. 


168 

Gray  haired  Lloyd  and  earnest  Russell, 
These  and  hundreds  true  as  they, 

Such  as  Mason,  Holmes  and  Weaver, 
Bureau  honors — mourns  to-day. 

Think  ye  these  will  be  forgotten  ? 

Never,  while  the  human  heart 
Throbs  and  thrills  with  great  emotions, 

Can  their  memory  depart. 

What !  their  deeds  be  nnremembered, 
Who  have  died  that  we  might  live  ? 

If  so,  let  our  memories  perish  : 
If  so,  mighty  God  forgive. 

For  the  distant  coming  ages 

History's  pen  shall  fill  her  roll. 
Write  their  names  in  light  and  glory 
On  the  nation's  deathless  scroll. 

Who  will  fill  these  vacant  places  ? 

Standing  for  the  noble  dead, 
Who  will  take  the  posts  of  honor  ? 

Who  avenge  the  blood  they  shed  ? 


169 

i 

See!  the  traitor  legions  waver, 

"Now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour," 

One  more  charge,  resistless  Northmen, 
Breaks  the  rebel  tyrant's  power. 

When  the  last  slave's  gyves  are  broken, 
When  this  bloody  strife  is  o'er, 

When  with  shouts  and  songs  of  triumph, 
Victory  rings  from  shore  to  shore, 

When  our  glorious  flag  unchallenged, 
O'er  the  land  and  o'er  the  sea, 

Floats  undimmed  in  starry  splendor, 
Flag  of  Union  and  the  free, 

Then  again  we'll  bid  you  welcome, 
Welcome  home  to  peace  and  rest, 

Then  the  victors'  fadeless  chaplet, 
Shall  around  your  brows  be  pressed. 


170 


WELCOME  TO  THE  RETURNED  SOLDIERS, 

1865. 

Hail,  day  of  Liberty  and  joy! 

We  bring  no  vain  oblation; 
This  people  stands  erect  to-day 

Earth's  mightest,  freest  nation. 

From  many  a  stormy  battle  field, 

Renowned  in  coming  story, 
Our  soldiers  bring  their  harvest  sheaves, 

Of  freedom,  peace  and  glory. 

Ho!  brothers  from  the  field  of  strife, 
Bronzed  by  the  southern  summers; 

We  welcome  you  with  heart  and  hand, 
From  shoulder  straps  to  Bummers. 

No  truer,  braver  souls  than  yours, 

Ere  heard  the  musket's  rattle, 
Or  met  unblanched  the  rebel  foe 

Upon  the  field  of  battle. 

To  you  we  owe  these  quiet  homes, 
So  peaceful  and  so  pleasant; 


171 

Protection  in  the  years  of  war, 
The  grand  victorious  present. 

You  broke  the  bondman's  tripple  chain 
That  stained  our  country's  honor, 

And  swept  away  that  cause  for  taunts 
Which  despots  heaped  upon  her. 

You  bore  aloft  our  starry  flag 

In  marches  long  and  weary, 
Through  wild  morass,  and  swollen  stream, 

And  forests  vast  and  dreary. 

You  undermined  the  corner  stone 

Of  treason's  dark  dominion, 
And  laid  on  truth's  eternal  rock, 

Free  speech  and  free  opinion. 

The  southern  bloods  that  talked  so  large 
And  scorned  the  coward  Yankee, 

Have  turned  their  backs  in  great  disgust, 
Saying,  "  Got  enough,  I  thank  ye." 

Free  speech  and  free  opinion  reign 

From  Maine  to  Rio  Grande  ; 
Even  negroes  now  may  sing  John  Brown 

And  Yankee  doodle  dandy. 


172 


0,  many  hearts  as  brave  as  yours, 

Upon  the  field  of  danger, 
Have  ceased  to  beat — their  manly  forms, 

Lie  buried  with  the  stranger. 

And  thus  our  cup  of  joy  to-day 
Is  mixed  with  tears  of  sorrow. 

For  those  whose  rest  no  drum-beat  breaks, 
Whose  slumber  knows  no  morrow. 

Their  memory  shall  be  kept  with  yours, 

And  down  with  circling  ages 
Shall  pass  on  history's  golden  page, 

With  heroes,  bards  and  sages. 

Thrice  welcome,  then,  ye  heroes  all, 

Honor  to  dead  and  living  ; 
We  serve  our  grateful  feast  to-day 

With  hearts  of  deep  thanksgiving. 

Union  and  Liberty  are  ours, 

The  fruit  of  your  endeavor, 
God  help  us  keep  the  heritage 

Forever  and  forever. 


173 


FOR  A  GOLDEN  WEDDING,  SEPTEMBER 

21,  1863. 

Just  fifty  summers  are  past, 

And  fifty  winters  of  snow, 
Since  you,  our  friends,  first  joined  your  bands 

In  wedlock,  for  weal  or  woe. 

*  ^ 

Twas  a  quiet  New  England  town, 

On  a  quiet  Autumn  day, 
The  sunshine  came  like  a  blessing  down, 

And  the  winds  were  soft  as  May. 

From  the  meadows  shorn  and  brown, 

No  more  came  the  mower's  din, 
For  the  summer  fruits  and  the  golden  sheaves, 

From  the  hillside  were  gathered  in. 

The  maples  were  tinged  with  crimson  hues, 

The  linden  and  ash  with  gold, 
As  silver  tinges  the  human  hair, 

When  we  are  growing  old. 


174 


Then  a  merry  company 

Were  gathered  of  old  and  young, 
And  the  parson  gave  his  blessing  in  prayer, 

And  the  marriage  psalm  was  sung. 

And  that  wedding  company 

Went  out  to  meet  no  more; 
Some  wandered  far,  and  all,  save  one, 

Have  passed  to  the  shadowy  shore. 

And  now  when  fifty  years 

Have  rolled  their  suns  away, 
A  merry  company  are  met 

On  the  golden  wedding  day. 

Tis  far  away  from  the  scene 

In  that  quiet  New  England  town. 

But  the  sunlight  falls  like  a  blessing  here, 
And  the  same  heaven  looks  down. 

In  those  fifty  years  what  blessings 
Have  crowned  each  passing  day; 

The  unseen  hand  of  the  Merciful  One 
Has  led  you  all  the  way. 


And  sons  and  daughters  were  born, 
To  gladden  and  cheer  your  home; 

Your  sons  with  manly  vigor  and  strength; 
Your  daughters,  with  beauty  and  bloom. 

\ 

And  then  as  the' years  rolled  on, 

The  prattling  grand-children  appear. 

Ah,  methinks  that  a  golden  wedding  day 
Without  them,  were  cold  and  drear. 

If  yours  is  not  wealth  or  power,— 

These  fall  to  the  lot  of  few— 
The  better  rewards  of  dutiful  toil 

And  goodness  belong  to  you. 

Such  lovely  examples  as  yours, 
At  the  plow,  the  shop  and  the  wheel, 

And  the  rearing  of  children  to  dutiful  lives, 
Are  the  stay  of  the  common  weal. 

'Tis  not  the  wealthy  and  proud; 

'Tis  not  whom  the  world  calls  great, 
But  an  earnest  people  who  will  to  be  free; 

That  build  and  support  the  State. 


176 


Thus  our  nation  in  fifty  years 

Has  passed  o'er  the  mountains's  hoar, 

And  reared  her  swarming  cities  and  towns 
By  the  broad  Pacific  shore. 

Till  she  grasps  the  mighty  oceans, 
That  wash  the  shores  of  the  globe; 

And  people  of  every  clime  and  land, 
Find  shelter  beneath  her  robe. 

What  a  wonderful  march,  of  thought 
Those  fifty  years  have  known, 

How  the  comforts  of  life  have  multiplied,. 
And  science  and  knowledge  grown. 

What  engines  of  mighty  power, 
What  nice  invention  and  skill, 

Dull  lifeless  matter  have  seemingly  forced 
To  work  with  a  human  will. 

And  how  many  plans  and  hopes, 

How  many  devices  of  men. 
Have  vanished  like  morning  dreams  away, 

In  the  years,  'twixt  now  and  then. 


What  myriads  have  sprung  to  life 
And  what  myriads  have  passed  away, 

A  vast  procession  hast'ning  along, 
Like  a  river  on  its  way. 

Ten  lustrums  ago  the  cloud 

Of  war  hung  over  our  shore; 
But  a  darker  cloud  hangs  over  us  now, 

Than  the  land  ever  saw  before. 

But  light  is  breaking  through, 

And  the  dawn  of  peace  is  at  hand,        [free— 
Which  shall  make  this  truly  the  home  of  the 

A  great  and  happy  land. 

For  the  onward  sweep  of  war. 

That  bears  us  along  like  a  wave, 
Is  breaking  the  bands  of  the  master's  power 

And  the  fetters  of  the  slave. 

May  you  live  to  see  that  day; 

May  your  aged  eyes  behold, 
Over  all  this  fair  and  goodly  realm, 

The  flag  of  the  free  unrolled. 


178 


THEN  ANT)  NOW. 

LINES   READ    AT    THE    OLD    SETTLERS'    MEETING, 

1864. 

It  is  six  and  forty  summers- 
How  swift  the  years  go  by?— 

Since  the  pleasant  lands  of  Bureau 
First  lay  beneath  mine  eye. 

It  was  in  the  early  autumn, 

And  these  broad  plains  of  ours 
Were  clad  in  the  prairie  grasses, 

And  glowed  with  the  autumn  flowers. 

The  Golden  Rod  and  the  Aster, 

And  a  countless  crowd  beside. 
Were  clothed  in  a  brighter  glory 

Than  kings  in  all  their  pride. 

A  sea  of  gold  and  purple, 

The  star-like  blossoms  stood 
And  danced  in  the  morning  zephyr, 

That  rustled  the  lonely  wood. 


179 

Still  memory  holds  that  picture 
Undimmed  by  Time's  rude  breath, 

And  I  fancy  I'll  bear  it  with  me 
Beyond  the  river  of  death. 

Oh!  what  are  royal  trappings, 

Brocade  and  satin  and  lace, 
To  the  all-surpassing  beauty 

Of  nature's  blooming  face? 

It  is  six  and  forty  summers — 
My  thoughts  go  back  o'er  the  years, 

And  a  crowd  of  recollections 
Before  my  mind  appears. 

And  I  think,  with  a  pang  of  sorrow, 
Of  the  loved  and  the  good,  since  then, 

Who  have  come  and  passed  like  shadows 
From  the  homes  and  haunts  of  men. 

There  are  graves  in  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
There  are  graves  in  the  prairie  mound, 

Where  our  dead  have  been  tenderly  buried 
And  sleep  in  the  virgin  ground. 


ISO 

There  lie  the  fathers  and  mothers- 
Bold  pioneers — who  came, 

Like  Caesar,  and  saw  and  conquered, 
But  not  with  battle  and  flame. 

And  many  who  sat  by  our  hearth-stones, 
Have  builded  their  homes  afar, 

Beneath  the  broad  sun's  setting, 
And  the  gleam  of  the  evening  star, 

And  far  away  by  the  mountains 

And  streams  of  a  distant  sky, 
Our  brave,  who  have  died  for  their  country, 

In  the  land  of  the  stranger  lie. 

And  still  there  is  weary  watching 

In  many  a  lonely  home. 
Waiting  and  watching  for  loved  ones, 

Who  never  more  will  come. 

It  seems  but  a  transient  season 
Since  all  was  new  and  strange, 

And  I  gaze  on  the  scene  around  me 
And  wonder  at  the  change. 


181 


Though  scant  at  first  our  homely  fare/  N£ 
A  little  industry  and^care 
Soon  brought  abundance,  and  to  spare; 
And  the  whole  land  was  filled  amain, 
With  herds  and  steeds  and  golden  grain. 
Our  cabins,  though  uncouth  and  rude, 
Built  of  the  forest  trees  unhewed, 
Were  homes  of  comfort,  snug -and  warm, 
That  fenced  away  the  driving  storm; 
Where,  huddled  in  the  winter  time, 
Our  children,  now  in  manhood's  prime; 
And  many  a  joyous,  winter  night 
Was  passed  around  the  blazing  light 
Of  the  big  fire.     And  tales  were  told 
Of  Indians,  bears  and  panthers  bold, 
Till  on  each  urchin's  frowsy  head 
The  bristling  hair  stood  up  with  dread. 
Those  days  will  come  no  more  again, 
Their  simple  tastes  and  manners  plain, 
Give  place  to  those,  if  more  refined, 
Less  social,  hospitable,  kind. 
Oh!  deem  ye  not  the  rich  and  great, 
Who  dwell  in  fashion's  pomp  and  state, 
Have  more  of  happiness  on  earth 
Than  the  great  mass  of  humbler  birth; 


182 


To  each  are  compensations  given, 

That  make  conditions  nearly  even. 

Cast  back  your  thoughts,  each  sire  and  dame. 

Who  with  our  early  settlers  came, 

And  say,  if  more  of  joy  ye  know. 

Than  six  and  forty  years  ago, 

When  this  fair  region,  unsubdued, 

Before  us  lay  a  solitude 

And  we  were  struggling,  nature's  powers 

To  bend  to  purposes  of  ours?  , 

Not  to  obey  a  stern  command, 

Does  man  put  forth  a  toiling  hand; 

He  seeks  the  pleasure  of  the  mind 

In  striving  nature's  force  to  bind, 

And  stores  of  happiness  obtains, 

While  conquering  her  wild  domains. 

When  first  I  saw  with  wondering  eyes. 

This  broad  and  blooming  paradise, 

The  murmur  of  domestic  life, 

Its  busy  hum  and  noisy  strife, 

Its  trading  marts,  its  fashions  gay, 

Were  twice  two  hundred  miles  away. 

Then  were  these  fields  by  plow  unbroke  ; 

No  spire  of  church,  no  village  smoke 

Climbed  the  blue  chambers  of  the  air, 


183 


And  told  the  white  man's  home  was  there. 

No  busy  tick  of  household  clock, 

No  morning  call  of  crowing  cock, 

Nor  low  of  kine,  nor  bleat  of  flock; 

No  neigh  of  steeds,  where  green  and  gay 

The  unfenced  plains  stretched  far  away. 

Then,  here  and  there  beside  the  wood, 

The  squatter's  rude,  rough  cabin  stood; 

While  all  around,  fair  nature  smiled, 

Untamed  and  beautiful  and  wild. 

No  chariot  whirled  along  the  way, 

No  schoolboys  shouting  at  their  play, 

Nor  anvil's  ring,  or  hammer's  stroke 

The  silence  and  the  quiet  broke. 

Then,  by  the  streams  and  forests  here 

The  Red  man  chased  the  timid  deer; 

And  where  our  village  gardens  bloom 

The  wolf  and  badger  made  their  home. 

Where,  upon  Princeton's  main  street  stand 

The  busy  shops  on  solid  land, 

These  eyes  have  seen  the  wild  swan  float, 

These  ears  have  heard  his  trumpet  note, 

As  in  the  autumn  morning  gray, 

He  grandly  rose  and  sailed  away. 

The  birds  that  haunt  our  woodland  sprays 


184 


Have  changed  since  those  remoter  days, 

And  softer,  sweeter,  are  their  lays; 

The  thrush,  that  each  returning  spring, 

Now  comes  to  build  his  nest  and  sing, 

But  twenty  years,  if  yet  so  long, 

Has  filled  our  orchards  with  his  song: 

And  the  pugnacious  chattering  wren, 

First  made  his  home  with  us  since  then. 

Look  now  abroad!  how  changed  the  scene, 

From  those  wild  prairies,  broad  and  green. 

Where  the  red  flames  each  passing  year, 

Swept  the  thick  herbage,  brown  and  sere, 

Bread  for  the  nations,  from  the  land 

Is  yielded  to  the  tiller's  hand. 

Broad  wheat  fields  wave,  and  stately  maize 

Rustles  in  autumn's  golden  days, 

And  herds  in  richest  pastures  fed, 

Walk  the  soft  earth  with  heavy  tread; 

And  Norris'  beef  is  sent  afar, 

By  steamer,  ship  and  railroad  car, 

And  smokes  on  London's  bounteous  boards, 

To  fatten  English  dukes  and  lords: 

And  Bureau  flour  by  Scotland's  braes, 

Makes  cakes  for  Christmas  holidays! 


185 


TEMPERANCE. 

EEAD    BEFORE   THE    PRINCETON,     (ILL.,)     WASHING- 
TONIAN  SOCIETY. 

When  first  on  Eden's  verdant  sod 
The  parents  of  our  lineage  trod; 
When  all  around  was  strange  and  new, 
That  met  the  pleased  and  wondering  view, 
Say,  what  should  crown  their  simple  board 
But  garden  fruits,  a  smiling  hoard? 
What  beverage  could  the  patriarch  bring, 
But  water  bubbling  from  the  spring? 
Their  wants  so  simple  and  so  few, 
Were  all  to  nature's  dictates  true; 
And  years  sped  joyously  along, 
Made  glad  with  labor,  health  and  song. 
No  alchymist,  as  yet,  had  found, 
In  his  dark  cave  beneath  the  ground, 
The  liquid  fire,  that  friend  of  strife 
Which  eats  the  silken  threads  of  life. 
Man  felt  no  rheums  nor  chronic  pain, 
No  burning  fever  scorched  his  brain; 
But  centuries  of  years  rolled  on 


186 


Before  the  sands  of  life  were  gone. 

But  when  upon  the  mountain  side 

The  waters  of  the  flood  were  dried. 

When  from  the  ark  our  sires  went  forth, 

And  spread  abroad  upon  the  earth 

And  planted  there  the  clinging  vine 

And  pressed  its  purple  fruit  for  wine, 

How  soon  the  years  of  man  had  run 

From  nine  long  centuries  down  to  one; 

How  thick  were  sown  along  his  path, 

Sorrow  and  crime,  disease  and  death. 

Ye  who  look  forward  to  the  hour 

When  death  shall  smite  with  certain  power; 

When  your  free  spirit  shall  arise 

To  the  bright  chambers  of  the  skies, 

What  will  the  waiting  angels  bring 

That  hasten  to  your  welcoming? 

Think  ye  that  wine  or. rum  are  there? 

No!  water,  limpid  as  the  air. 

Water  of  life,  and  that  alone, 

Which  gushes  from  the  eternal  throne. 

The  same  by  him  of  Patmos  seen, 

Sparkling  in  heaven's  all  glorious  sheen; 

That  radiant,  bright  and  blessed  river, 

Whose  crystal  wave  flows  on  forever. 


1ST 


Then  let  us  all  our  steps  retrace, 
Regenerate  our  wasted  race; 
Temperance  shall  lengthen  out  the  span 
Allotted  here  on  earth  to  man, 
Bring  in  the  coming  years  to  view, 
The  reverent  age  the  patriarchs  knew; 
(live  to  the  glad  Millenium  birth, 
And  make  a  paradise  on  earth. 

December,  1S40. 


188 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

0  lay  him  in  his  place  of  rest, 

His  earnest,  stormy  life  is  o'er; 
Let  the  green  sods  of  spring  be  prest 

'Round  the  loved  form  we  see  no  more. 

How  throbbed  his  warm  and  generous  heart? 

What  mighty  passions  thrill'd  his  frame! 
How  beamed  his  eye  with  sudden  start 

At  sound  of  Freedom's  holy  name ! 

To  her  he  gave  his  earnest  life, 

And  toiled  through  seeming  hopeless  years, 
Long  years  of  scorn  and  hate  and  strife, 

'Till  now  her  glorious  day  appears. 

Strong  words  of  truth  that  cannot  die, 
He  spoke  in  stern  and  high  debat'e; 

With  manly  front  and  dauntless  eye 
Met  the  wild  charge  of  rebel  hate. 

With  mightier  power  than  Aaron's  rod 

He  tore  the  sophist's  nets  apart, 
And  poured  the  living  truth  of  God 

Fresh  on  the  Nation's  quivering  heart. 


189 


What  countless  crowds  throughout  the  land, 
Hung  on  each  glowing,  burning  word  ! 

He  swayed  them  with  a  prophet's  wand, 
As  woods  in  morning  winds  are  stirred. 

As  Moses  from  the  mountain  steep, 
He  saw  the  enfranchised  land  before  ; 

He  leaves  the  boon  for  us  to  keep, 
His  work  is  done — his  toil  i,s  o'er. 

On  fields  he  sowed  with  toil  and  pain, 

Uncounted  labors  entering  in, 
Reap  the  full  sheaves  of  ripened  grain, 

With  harvest  songs  and  joyous  din. 

In  these  free  prairies  of  the  West 

We  lay  his  manly  form  away; 
Tis  meet  that  here  Earth's  loving  breast 

Receive  again  the  conqueror's  clay. 


190 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MRS.  M. 

When  one  so  sweet,  so  fair,  is  called  to  go, 
So  full  of  goodness,  truth  and  joy  and  love, 

How  hard  the  parting,  even  if  we  know 
The  soul  has  found  a  better  home  above. 

0  broken  hearted  husband,  sister,  sire, 
A  rich  inheritance  is  yours  to  claim, 

Amid  your  yearning  and  intense  desire— 
The  memory  of  her  unspotted  name. 

The  memory  of  her  love,  that  clung  so  fast, 
And  deeper  grew  'till  life's  last  nickering  ray, 

Unswerving  and  unfaltering  to  the  last, 
And  looking  heavenward  as  she  passed  away. 

Amid  her  village  school,  love  took  the  helm, 
No  churl  so  rude  but  willing  homage  paid; 

She  ruled  unquestioned  in  her  little  realm, 
For  love  was  law  and  all  that  law  obeyed. 


191 


Brave  for  the  truth,  unflinching  for  the  right, 
Yet  timid,  gentle,  modest,  meek,  she  stood, 

Her  glowing  bosom  filled  with  peace  and  light. 
And  aspirations,  ever  pure  and  good. 

0  deem  not  she  has  gone — forever  gone; 

But  ever  feel  her  gentle  presence  nigh, 
In  the  soft  light  of  every  breaking  dawn, 

In   noon's   sweet  sunshine    and    the    night 
wind's  sigh. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ICHABOD  CODDING. 

When  death,  with  a  rentless  hand, 
Smites  the  strong  pillars  of  the  land, 
To  what  safe  refuge  can  we  flee, 
Lord  of  Nations,  but  to  Thee  ? 

As  falls  the  stately  forest  oak, 
So  fall  earth's  heroes  by  the  stroke; 
The  wise,  the  good  in  sad  array 
And  silent  grandeur,  pass  away. 

This  day  we  mourn  with  many  tears- 
Cut  down  amid  his  prime  of  years,— 
A  life  long  toiler  in  Thy  cause, 
For  freedom,  truth  and  righteous  laws. 

Kind,  gentle,  child-like  in  thy  sight. 
Strong,  brave,  unflinching  for  the  right; 
'Mid  scorn  and  cowardice,  he  stood 
And  gave  his  life  to  deeds  of  good. 


193 

With  faltering  faith,  0  God!  we  ask, 
Who  shall  resume  the  unfinished  task; 
Who  stand  Thy  Champion,  in  the  stead 
Of  the  heroic,  mighty  dead? 

Yet  know  we,  far  beyond  our  ken, 
Live  the  great  deeds  of  noble  men, 
And  glowing  truths  from  prophet  seers, 
Light  the  long  pathway  of  the  years. 


194 


FAREWELL  HYMN, 

Sung  by  the    Graduating    Class  of  Princeton    High    School,  June 
2d, 1871. 

Since  first  we  met  four  years  have  passed. 

Four  years!  what  words  their  worth  can  tell  ? 
And  all  too  soon  has  conie  at  last 

The  hour  to  speak  the  word.  '•  Farewell." 

Farewell  to  this  delightful  spot, 
Where  order,  peace  and  friendship  meet, 

To  those  who  smoothed  our  path  of  thought, 
And  tireless,  wratched  our  wayward  feet. 

Farewell,  dear  schoolmates  left  behind, 
Climbing  the  steep,  yet  pleasant  height; 

To  fill,  with  useful  lore,  the  mind, 
And  lift  the  soul  to  larger  light. 

May  God's  good  angels  shield  each  head, 
Long,  joyous  years,  be  ours  and  theirs, 

Truth  over  all  her  radiance  shed, 
And  honor  wait  on  hoary  hairs. 


195 


INSTALLATION  HYMN. 

Father  of  light  and  love, 

To  Thee  our  hymn  we  raise; 
Send  down  thy  Spirit  now  and  move 

Our  hearts  to  grateful  praise. 

All  souls  are  in  Thy  hand. 
All  creatures  great  and  small, 

In  Thy  upholding  power  they  stand, 
Thou  mak'st  and  lovest  all. 

Him  whom  we  crown  to-night. 

As  teacher,  helper,  friend, 
Fill  Thou  his  soul  with  strength  and  light, 

On  him  Thy  blessing  send. 

Give  him  deep  faith  in  Thee, 

A  spirit  brave  and  meek, 
A  prophet's  ken  Thy  truth  to  see. 

Courage  that  truth  to  speak. 


196 

As  seasons  come  and  go, 
May  peace  attend  his  flock. 

Led  where  the  living  waters  flow 
From  Thee,  the  eternal  rock. 

Here  each  in  his  own  way, 
Shall  seek  the  truth  he  needs, 

Free  to  depart,  or  free  to  stay, 
Unchained  by  sect  or  creeds. 


197 


HYMN, 

SUNG  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  PRINCETON  HIGH 
SCHOOL  BUILDING. 

O'er  these  broad  plains  so  rich  and  fair, 
But  late  the  untutored  savage  trod; 

No  trace  of  cultured  life  was  seen 

To  crown  the  smooth  unfurrowed  sod. 

Then  came  the  restless  Saxon  tide, 
Resistless,  broad  and  deep  and  strong; 

That  on  its  bright,  free,  crested  wave, 
New  life  and  learning  bore  along. 

Then  rose  the  village,  Church  and  School, 
And  rural  homes  came  thick  and  fast; 

And  stately  hall  and  lofty  dome, 
Are  reared  for  learning's  use  at  last. 

The  light  divine  of  Palestine, 

The  lore  of  Egypt,  Greece  and  Rome, 

The  mighty  thoughts  of  modern  minds, 
Shall  cluster  here  and  find  a  home.- 


IDS 


And  here  shall  rich  and  poor  alike. 

Be  nurtured  for  the  world's  great  strife. 
And  hence  go  forth,  with  earnest  hearts, 

To  lead  the  Nation's  upward  life. 

No  more  shall  minds  of  native  power 
Be  lost  amid  a  herd  of  slaves, 

No  future  Milton's  lips  bo  mute. 

No  Cro  in  wells  till  unhonored  graves. 


199 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 

This  hour,  with  joy  and  hope  so  bright, 
A  fane  where  human  thought  is  free, 

0  Lord  of  liberty  and  light, 
We  come  to  consecrate  to  Thee. 

Accept  the  labor  of   our  hands, 

Thou  loving  Father  of  our  race, 
And  long  as  this  fair  temple  stands, 

0  make  it  still  Thy  dwelling  place. 

Here  may  all  doubting  souls  find  rest, 
The  erring  learn  to  love  thy  ways. 

And  children  such  as  Jesus  blest, 
Crowd  these  wide  courts  with  grateful  praise. 

And  as  the  years  of  time  pass  on. 

And  generations  rise  and  fall. 
The  pure  sweet  life  of  Mary's  Son, 

Find  answer  in  the  lives  of  all. 


POEM  FOR  DECEMBER 

Years  bright  and  dark  have  sped  away, 
Since  by  New  England's  rocky  shore 

The  Mayflower  moored  in  Plymouth  Bay 
Amid  the  wintry  tempest's  roar. 

Few,  worn  and  weak,  that  Pilgrim  band; 

An  unknown  coast  before  them  rose— 
A  vast,  unmeasured  forest  land. 

Begirt  with  ice  and  clad  with  snows. 

Yet,  firm  and  dauntless,  forth  they  trod  . 

From  that  lone  ship  beside  the  sea, 
Firm  in  the  faith  and  truth  of  God, 

To  plant  an  Empire  for  the  free. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  what  toil  and  strife, 
What  griefs  beset  the  Pilgrim's  path; 

How  brave  he  bore  the  ills  of  life 

And  triumphed  in  the  hour  of  death  ? 

Strange,  weird  and  wild  the  scenes  around, 
With  trackless  forests  dark  and  deep, 

Where  silence,  solemn  and  profound 
An  endless  Sabbath  seemed  to  keep. 


201 


There  in  the  evening's  holy  calm 
And  eke  in  morning's  frosty  air, 

The  Pilgrim  trilled  his  sacred  psalm, 
Arid  bowed  his  head  in  earnest  prayer. 

He  looked  to  God  for  every  good— 
For  sun  and  rain  and  fruitful  field: 

And  deemed  that  angels  round  him  stood, 
His  sword  and  his  protecting  shield. 

Each  passing  year  at  autumn's  close, 
For  temporal  mercies  largely  given, 

His  voice  in  deep  thanksgiving  rose 
And  praises  to  the  Lord  of  heaven. 

His  were  the  errors  of  the  time- 
Intolerance  and  a  mien  severe; 

His,  too,  a  heroism  sublime, 
That  cast  out  all  unmanly  fear. 

/ 
The  blood  poured  out  on  Bunker's  height, 

At  Brooklyn,  Eufcaw,  Yorktown  plains, 
In  deadly  charge  and  stubborn  fight, 
Came  from  the  stern  old  pilgrims  veins. 


202 

He  laid  foundations;  see,  a  State 
In  power  and  freedom  rise  to  view. 

He  little  thought  how  strong  and  great; 
"He  builded  better  than  he  knew." 

The  vine  then  planted  by  the  sea 

Has  spread  o'er  mountain,  wood-  and  glade, 
Sheltering  a  Nation,  strong  and  free, 

Whose  children  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

O'er  a  vast  waste  but  late  untrod, 
Save  by  wild  beasts  and  savage  men, 

Her  swarming  sons  have  spread  abroad 
On  flowery  plain  and  woody  glen. 

Homes  nestle  on  the  mountain  side, 
Proud  cities  rise  by  mighty  streams, 

And  wheat  and  maize  fields  spreading  wide 
Bask  in  the  sun's  effulgent  beams. 

There  in  fresh  pastures  roams  the  steed  ; 

Unnumbered  flocks  by  mountain  rills  ; 
And  sleek  herds  crop  the  grassy  mead, 

Or  range  upon  a  thousand  hills. 


From  one  rude  hamlet  by  the  wood 
How  wide,  how  far  have  spread  our  lines, 

Till  o'er  the  vast  Pacific's  flood 
Our  glorious  star  of  empire  shines. 

•Yet  brighter,  higher  still  tha,t  star, 
With  every  passing  year  ascends. 

Full  soon  its  light  shall  shine  afar 
To  gladden  earth's  remotest  ends. 

Aye,  soon  the  realms  where  darkness  lies 
And  fell  oppression  reigns  supreme, 

Shall  mark  its  dawn  upon  their  skies, 
And  hail  with  joy  its  quickening  beam. 

Here  on  life's  ever-swelling  tide 

A  restless  stream,  deep,  broad  and  strong, 
Learning  and  freedom,  side  by  side. 

With  faith  in  God  are  borne  along. 

Bless  then  the  hand  whose  gentle  might 
Smoothed  for  our  sires  old  ocean's  breast, 

Bless  we  this  day  whose  morning  light 
Revealed  the  promised  land  of  rest. 


204 


AT  THE  TOMB  OF  LINCOLN. 

READ  AT  THE   FINAL   DEDICATION   OF   THE   LINCOLN 

MONUMENT  AT  SPRINGFIELD^  ILL., 

APRIL  15,  1884. 

FELLOW  CITIZENS  : — It  is  now  nearly  hah"  a  century  since  I 
first  met  Mr.  Lincoln  and  became  somewhat  acquainted  with  him. 
Even  then  I  felt  drawn  towards  him,  on  account  of  his  genial,  so 
cial  nature.  From  that  first  acquaintance  I  saw  him  occasionally, 
but  did  not  know  him  intimately  until  about  the  year  1854.  Aittr 
that  I  met  him  frequently,  until  the  time  of  his  assassination.  It 
was  not  until  he  was  called  to  lead  us  through  the  fearful  agonies  of 
the  civil  war  that  I  became  fully  impressed  with  the  sterling  quali 
ties  of  the  man.  Then  my  respect  grew  into  an  affectionate  regard 
and  reverence,  such  as  I  never  felt  for  any  other  public  officer- 
And  since  his  violent  taking  off,  the  tender  veneration  I  cherish 
for  his  memory,  has,  if  anything,  become  deeper  as  the  years  have 
passed  away.  Entertaining  these  feelings,  I  trust  I  may  be  par 
doned  any  seeming  egotism  when  I  say  that  I  esteem  it  a  great 
favor  that  I  have  been  invited  by  those  who  have  charge  of  these 
exercises,  to  read  on  this  spot  a  few  lines  of  verse,  expressing  the 
sincere  sentiments  of  my  heart  for  the  character  and  memory  of 
him  whose  mortal  remains  are  here  entombed. 

Not  one  of  all  earth's  wise  and  good 

Hath  earned  a  purer  gratitude, 
Than  the  great  soul  whose  hallowed  dust 

This  structure  holds  in  sacred  trust. 

How  fierce  the  strife  that  rent  the  land 
When  he  was  summoned  to  command! 

With  what  wise  care  he  led  us  through 
The  fearful  storms  that  round  him  blew! 


205 


Calm,  patient,  hopeful,  undismayed, 
He  met  the  angry  hosts  arrayed 

For  bloody  war,  and  overcame 

Their  haughty  power  in  freedom's  name. 

Mid  taunts  and  doubts  the  bondman's  chain 
With  gentle  force  he  cleft  in  twain, 

And  raised  four  million  slaves  to  be 
The  chartered  sons  of  liberty. 

No  debt  he  owed  to  wealth  or  birth; 

By  simple  force  of  solid  worth 
He  climbed  the  topmost  height  of  fame, 

And  wrote  thereon  a  spotless  name. 

Oh,  when  the  felon  hand  laid  low 
That  sacred  head,  a  sudden  woe 

Shot  to  the  nation's  farthest  bound, 
And  every  bosom  felt  the  wound. 

Well  might  that  nation  bow  in  grief, 
And  weep  above  her  fallen  chief, 

Who  ever  strove  by  word  and  pen 
For  ''  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men." 


206 

The  people  loved  him,  for  they  knew 
Each  pulse  of  his  large  heart  was  true 

To  them,  to  country  and  the  right, 
Unswayed  by  gain,  unawed  by  might. 

This  tomb  by  loving  hands  uppiled, 
To  him,  the  merciful  and  mild, 

From  age  to  age  shall  carry  down 
The  glory  of  his  great  renown. 

As  the  long  centuries  onward  flow, 

As  generations  come  and  go, 
Wide  and  more  wide  his  fame  shall  spread, 

And  greener  laurels  crown  his  head. 

And  when  this  pile  shall  fall  to  dust, 

It's  bronzes  crumble  into  rust, 
Thy  name,  oh  Lincoln,  still  shall  be 

Revered  and  loved  from  sea  to  sea! 

India's  swart  millions  'neath  their  palms 
Shall  sing  thy  praise  in  grateful  psalms, 

And  crowds  by  Congo's  turbid  wave 
Bless  the  good  hand  that  freed  the  slave. 


207 


Shine  on,  oh  star  of  freedom,  shine! 

'Till  all  the  realms  of  earth  are  thine, 
And  all  her  tribes  through  countless  days 

Shall  bask  in  thy  benignant  rays. 

Lord  of  the  nations,  grant  us  still 

Another  patriot  sage,  to  fill 
The  seat  of  power,  and  save  the  state 

From  selfish  greed.     For  this  we  wait. 


208 


HYMN, 

SUNG  AT  THE  CONGREGATIONAL  CHURCH,    AT    PRIN 
CETON,  AT  THE  LAST    SERVICE    HELD  IN  THEIR 
OLD  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP,   1845. 

Almighty  God  !  for  many  a  year 
Have  we,  Thy  children,  gathered  here; 
And  now,  within  this  humble  house, 
Have  come  to  pay  our  parting  vows. 

Ah!  Wondrous  years!  within  the  range 
Of  human  sight,  what  mighty  change ! 
And  backward  as  we  turn  our  eyes, 
What  sacred  memories  arise ! 

E'er  yet  these  fields  by  plow  were  broke. 
Or  rose  in  air  the  village  smoke, 
Thy  servants  trenched  the  virgin  sod 
And  reared  this  house  to  Thee,  our  God. 

Here  each  succeeding  Sabbath  morn, 
'Mid  jeers  of  hate  and  taunts  of  scorn, 
Few,  weak,  yet  strong  in  truth,  we  came 
To  nurse  and  spread  its  kindling  flame. 


209 


Here  has  the  thoughtless  soul  been  roused, 
The  sorrowing  heart  to  peace  composed ; 
Here  has  the  cup  of  joy  overflowed, 
With  blessings  by  Thy  hand  bestowed. 

Here  hath  the  fleeing  bondman  found 
A  shield  from  Hell's  pursuing  hound; 
And  hence  have  Freedom's  truths  gone  forth 
To  shake  and  light  and  bless  the  Earth. 

With  saddened  hearts,  as  duty  calls, 
We  leave  these  venerated  walls, 
Nor  deem,  whate'er  may  be  our  lot, 
This  hallowed  place  can  be  forgot. 


210 


HYMN. 

There  is  a  life  of  endless  bliss, 
Far  in  the  spirit  sphere, 
A  better  home  by  far  than  this, 
Of  purer  love  than  here. 

Peace,  like  a  river  broad  and  deep, 
O'erflows  that  happy  land. 
And  gales  of  heavenly  rapture  sweep 
Along  its  blooming  strand. 

Celestial  mansions,  bright  and  fair, 
In  glorious  grandeur  rise. 
The  gardens  of  the  Lord  are  there,— 
The  vales  of  paradise. 

0  let  us  tread  the  blessed  road 
Of  goodness,  truth  and  love, 
Led  by  the  spirit  of  our  God, 
To  that  pure  home  above. 


21 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

With  reverence,  gently  bear  away, 
This  brave  old  man  of  many  years; 
And  in  the  graveyard's  bosom,  lay, 
His  manly  form,  with  sorrowing  tears. 

For  he,  beyond  life's  common  span, 
With  us  has  lived  and  walked  abroad ;  , 
Has  filled  the  measure  of  a  man,— 
Love  to  his  neighbor,  faith  in  God. 

His  cheerful  voice  we  hear  no  more, 
No  more,  his  sturdy  form  we  meet, 
Passing  along  from  door  to  door, 
Upon  our  busy  village  street. 

With  courage  true,  that  never  quailed, 
He  marched,  his  country  to  defend. 
And  who  can  point,  wherein  he  failed, 
As  husband,  father,  brother,  friend  ? 


919 
uiu 


In  public  life,  no  venal  stain, 
Dimmed  the  fair  scutcheon  of  his  name  ; 
Nor  sought  he  wealth,  or  power  to  gain, 
At  cost  of  honor,  truth,  or  fame. 

With  generous,  noble,  cheerful  heart, 
In  conscious  rectitude,  he  stood, 
Nor  ever  shunned  to  bear  his  part, 
Against  the  wrong,  and  for  the  good. 

Thus  lived  he,  four  score  years  and  more  ; 
And  died,  with  an  unfaltering  trust. 
With  him,  the  toils  of  life  are  o'er  ; 
He  rests  among  the  good  and  just. 


213 


SONNET. 

"  And  Pilate  said  unto  him,  What  is  Truth?" — JOHN'S  GOSPEL. 
"  Canst  thou  bv  searching  find  out  God?" — JOB. 

When    Pilate  asked  the  question,    "What  is 

Truth?" 
Earth's  mightiest  Seer  and  Teacher  answered 

not. 

Could  not  He  answer,  whose  ethereal  thought 
Confounded  doctors  in  his  callow  youth? 
Upon  this  question,  still  mankind  divide, 
And  have  divided,  through  each  passing  age. 
Philosopher  and  prophet,  saint  and  sage, 
Have  failed  alike  the  problem  to  decide. 
Great  men  have  toiled  and  dreamed  through 

many  a  year, 

And  writ  huge  tomes,  the  mystery  to  explain; 
Thick  on  the  track  of  history  they  appear, 
And  show  how  vain  the  toil,  the  thought  how 

vain. 

For,  still  unsealed,  ascends  the  Imperial  throne. 
Where  perfect  truth  abides  with  Clod  alone. 


214 


WAR, 

This  mighty  stream  of  life  that  glides 
Through  earth's  unumbered  human  forms. 
Like  the  great  ocean's  heaving  tides. 
Is  restless,  dark  and  wild,  with  storms. 

Look  backward  o'er  its  dreary  track, 
Till  lost  in  distance,  dim  and  gray. 
And  mark  the  ruin  and  the  wrack. 
That  cumber  all  the  endless  way. 

How  many  empires,  wide  and  vast, 
That  once  in  power  and  glory  stood, 
Have  human  passions  downward  cast, 
And  whelmed  beneath  a  sea  of  blood? 

What  hosts  has  persecution's  rage 
Doomed  to  a  bitter  death  of  shame: 
In  every  land  and  every  age, 
Dear  Lord,  what  myriads  in  thy  name? 

And  still  the  nations,  near  and  far, 
Shape  at  the  forge,  with  ceaseless  toil, 


215 

The  horrid  implements  of  war, 

And  drench  with  human  blood  the  .soil. 

If  more  artistic  than  of  yore, 
More  dread  is  war's  wild  rush  than  then. 
And  deeper  still  the  flood  of  gore, 
That  oft'  overflows  the  paths  of  men. 

0,  when  shall  that  calm,  happy  time, 
By  ancient  seers  long  since  foretold, 
In  every  land  and  every  clime, 
Its  white  and  holy  wings  unfold? 

When  nations  shall  learn  war  no  more; 
No  more  its  enginery  design; 
But  sit  in  peace  the  wide  world  o?er, 
Beneath  the  fig  tree  and  the  vine. 

Or,  is  it  but  an  idle  dream, 

In  which  our  thoughts  some  solace  find; 

A  passing  meteor's  fitful  gleam, 

To  cheer  the  hope,  but  cheat  the  mind. 

0,  no,  there  yet  shall  rise  a  day, 
Borne  on  the  fleeting  wings  of  time, 
When  over  all,  with  gentle  sway, 
The  Prince  of  Peace  shall  rule  sublime. 


216 


FOR  DECORATION  DAY,  MAY  30-TH,  1S79. 

Calm  sleep  our  brave  through  all  the  land,— 
The  brave,  who  for  their  country  died,— 
By  mountain-steep  and  river  strand, 
And  by  the  restless  ocean's  side. 

Calm  sleep  our  brave.     To-day  we  come, 
Not  with  the  cannon's  fearful  roar, 
Not  with  the  martial  roll  of  drum, 
To  call  to  battle  fields  once  more; 

But  'neath  this  soft,  blue  sky  of  May, 
In  these  serene  and  peaceful  hours, 
We  come  upon  these  graves  to  lay 
Fresh  garlands  twined  with  vernal  flowers. 

Not  that  the  form  that  sleeps  in  death, 
Heeds  the  light  footstep  pressing  near, 
But  that  this  tide  of  living  breath, 
May  thrill  with  holier  impulse  here. 

0,  ye  dead  heroes!  let  us  not 
Neglect  at  each  returning  spring. 
To  meet  upon  this  sacred  spot 
And  here  our  grateful  offerings  bring. 


217 


Nor  here  alone,  but  far  and  near, 
Where'er  our  soldiers  sleep  in  clay, 
May  pilgrims  come  each  passing  year, 
And  there  the  meed  of  honor  pay. 

0,  never  let  their  memory  die 
Who  saved  to  freedom,  power  and  fame, 
This  land,  when  darkness  veiled  our  sky 
And  o'er  us  rolled  war's  wasting  flame! 

Nor  let  these  tender  rites  be  lost; 
By  them  shall  corning  times  be  taught, 
Through  what  deep  pain,  what  countless  cost, 
The  Nation's  power  to  live  was  bought. 

Warned  by  the  awful  bloody  past, 
Eschewing  bitterness  and  strife, 
May  our  dear  country  stand  at  last, 
Renewed  in  all  its  inner  life. 

Then  through  a  long  and  prosperous  reign, 
Shall  God's  good  angels  round  us  stand, 
And  peace  and  friendship  with  their  train, 
Bless  a  united,  happy  land. 


218 


HYMN. 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CUMMINGTON  CENTENNIAL. 

Father  of  all,  whose  boundless  sway 
Rules  Earth  and  all  the  rolling  spheres; 

Grant  us  Thy  gentlest  smile  to-day, 
This  day  that  crowns  a  hundred  years. 

From  many  dwellings,  near  and  far, 
From  where  the  Atlantic  billows  foam. 

And  plains  beneath  the  evening  star, 
We  come,  to  greet  our  native  home. 

Fit  place  is  this,  0  Lord  most  high! 

Where  these  eternal  hills  ascend. 
Fit  hour,  beneath  this  mountain  sky, 

Around  Thy  mercy  seat  to  bend. 

Let  love  and  concord  rule  the  day, 
And  reverence  for  those  brave  old  sires 

Who  hewed  the  mighty  woods  away, 
And  kindled  here  their  altar  fires. 

Here  may  their  virtues  still  abide, 

With  kindlier,  gentler  mien  than  then, 

And  as  the  passing  ages  glide, 
Make  glad  the  hearts  and  homes  of  men. 


CENTURY  POEM. 

READ  AT  THE   CUMMINGTON   CENTENNIAL   CELEBRA 
TION,  JUNE  2(>,   1879. 

Dear  native  town!  from  far  and  near, 

To-day  thy  children  gather  here 

Once  more,  beneath  thy  glorious  skies, 

To  look  into  each  others  eyes, 

With  thoughts  and  memories  backward  cast, 

To  hear  the  story  of  the  past— 

Those  times  when  first  our  fathers  trod 

With  fearless  steps,  this  mountain  sod— 

The  tribute  of  our  love  to  pay, 

And  celebrate  thy  natal  day. 

This  hour  let  joy  be  unconfined, 

All  hands  in  generous  friendship  joined, 

And  the  sweet  memories  of  the  day 

Be  cherished  as  time  glides  away. 

A  century  since,  unbroken  wood 
O'er  all  these  hills  and  valleys  stood, 

Save  here  and  there  a  sunny  spot. 
Where  the  first  settler's  hands  had  made 
An  opening  in  the  boundless  shade, 

And  reared  his  solitary  cot. 


220 


Soon  changed  the  scene;  soon  opened  wide 
Green  pastures  on  the  mountain  side. 
Where  the  fierce  panther,  wolf  and  bear, 
Through  countless  years  had  kept  their  lair. 
Sleek  herds  of  kine  and  flocks  of  sheep 
Cropped  the  fresh  herbage  of  the  steep. 
And  tasseled  maize  and  wheat  and  rye 
Grew  rank  beneath  the  kindly  sky. 
Where  once  slow-creeping  glaciers  passed 
Resistless  o'er  a  frozen  waste. 
Deep-rooted  in  the  virgin  mould, 
The  dower  of  centuries  untold, 
Broad  orchards  clothed  in  radiant  bloom, 
Filled  the  wide  air  with  rich  perfume. 
And  when  the  genial  autumn  came. 
And  maple  boughs  were  red  like  flame, 
And  all  the  giants  of  the  wood, 
In  robes  of  princely  beauty  stood, 
Earth's  plenteous  fruits  were  gathered  in, 
With  grateful  hearts  and  joyous  din. 
Ah,  what  intrepid  souls  were  they 
Who  cleared  those  trackless  woods  away! 
What  tireless  sinews,  bone  and  brawn, 
That  smote  the  trees  from  early  dawn 
'Till  daylight's  latest  rays  were  gone! 


221 


No  whining,  eight-hour  men  were  they, 

Who  feared  the  chill  of  early  day; 

They  kept  the  pinch  of  want  away 

With  industry  and  watchful  care, 

'Till  these  had  brought  them  generous  fare; 

Else  had  those  mighty  forest  trees 

Still  stood  to  buffet  storm  and  breeze. 


Ah,  those  were  jolly  roystering  days. 
When  strong  men  piled  the  logs  on  high. 

And  billowy  smoke  and  towering  blaze 
Shone  grandly  on  the  evening  sky. 
And  jibes  went  round,  and  merry  jest, 
As  the  swart  laborers  took  their  rest 
At  lunch  hour,  in  some  shady  nook 
Hard  by  a  fountain  or  a  brook; 
And  where  within  an  eddying  pool, 
Brown  Bet*  was  laid  to  keep  her  cool. 
And  when,  around  the  cabin  door, 
They  gathered  at  the  twilight  hour, 
What  wondrous  tales  those  woodmen  told, 
Of  fights  with  bears  and  panthers  bold, 
All  in  a  strain  of  reckless  glee, 


*A  brown  jug  containing  spirits. 


222 


Well  garnished  with  hyperbole: 
Each  one  the  hero  of  his  story. 
Self-crowned  with  daring  deeds  and  glory. 
On  holidays  the  boys  and  men 
Had  games  and  sports  athletic  then; 
Our  wrestlers  did  not  fear  to  meet 
Of  neighboring  towns  their  picked  athlete, 
And,  by  superior  strength  and  knack. 
Oft  laid  the  champion  on  his  back. 
Our  youth  were  agile,  lithe  and  tall. 
Could  catch  with  skill  the  flying  ball, 
And  clear  the  circle  round,  as  fleet 
Almost,  as  wild  deer's  nimble  feet. 
Then,  when  the  seventh  day's  setting  sun 
Told  that  the  long  week's  toil  was  done, 
Hushed  in  deep  stillness  was  the  hour, 
As  if  some  overruling  power 
Had  sent  through  all  the  waiting  land. 
A  stern  and  absolute  command, 
That  worldly  toil  and  noise  should  cease. 
And  man  and  beast  find  rest  and  peace. 
And  when  the  first  day's  morning  rose 
The  solemn  silence  and  repose 
Still  brooded  on  till  daylight's  close. 
The  law  of  stern  opinion  then 


Held  in  firm  grasp  the  ways  of  men; 
It  kept  in  check  the  restless  boys 
Who  Sumhws  longed  for  play  and  noise, 
And  keenly  felt  the  close  restraint, 
But  dared  not  oft  to  make  complaint. 
A  lad  once,  bolder  than  the  rest, 
Thus  to  his  mate  his  thought  confessed; 
"You  know  Fast  day;  well  that  is  one  day 
That  is  almost  as  bad  as  Sunday.'' 
For  Sundays  then  to  children  here 
Were  days  of  weariness  and  fear. 
Yet  those  old  sires  were  of  the  stock 
That  landed  upon  Plymouth  Rock; 
Who  deep  and  broad  foundations  laid, 
And  planted  here  the  tree,  whose  shade 
Shelters  a  people  great  and  free- 
That  glorious  tree  of  liberty, 
Whose  branches  stretch  from  sea  to  sea. 

Those  were  not  days  of  lace  and  silk, 
Of  silver  spoons  and  dainties  rare, 

But  homespun  clothes,  brown  bread  and  milk 
In  pewter  dish  and  wooden  ware, 
And  pork  and  beans  for  Sunday  fare; 
"Bean  porridge  hot,  bean  porridge  cold," 
E'en  sometimes  more  than  "nine  days  old/' 


224 


Waited  the  tiller  of  the  soil 

Returning  from  his  daily  toil. 

Eude  were  the  dwellings  of  that  day,— 

Log  cabins  daubed  with  moistened  clay. 

The  scanty  roof  with  many  a  chink. 

Through  which  the  stars  were  seen  to  blink, 

And  whence,  in  winter  storms,  the  snow 

Was  sifted  on  the  floor  below. 

The  broad,  deep  fire-place,  rough  and  rude, 

Was  piled  with  logs  of  maple  wood, 

When  the  keen  frosts  of  winter  came; 
Slow  climbed  at  first  the  smoke  wreaths  blue, 

Then,  bursting  into  tongues  of  flame 
Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  flue, 
And,  through  the  long  drear,  winter  night. 
Cheered  the  dull  hours  with  warmth  and  light. 
Round  their  proud  mothers  fair  to  see, 
Like  saplings  'neath  a  sheltering  tree, 
Stood  ruddy  children,  nine  or  ten, 
Soon  to  be  maidens,  dames  and  men; 
Examples  worthy  of  all  praise, 
But  rarely  followed  in  these  days. 
And  shall  this  race  of  Saxon  blood, 
That  hardship,  cold  and  storm  withstood. 
And  tamed  the  wilderness,  now  melt 


Away  before  the  advancing  Celt? 
These  fields,  subdued  by  hands  so  free, 
Pay  tribute  to  the  Roman  See? 
Kind  heaven  forbid  that  this  should  be. 

No  post,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
Over  these  roadless  mountains  went; 

Only  as  men  passed  to  and  fro, 
The  messages  and  news  were  sent. 
How  limited  and  meagre  then, 
All  knowledge  of  the  world  of  men! 
Few  books  were  read  in  those  old  days; 
The  Bible,  Watt's  sacred  lays, 
Baxter's  "Saint's  Rest,"  and  "Earnest  Call," 
And  Bunyan's  works  were  nearly  all; 
Save  when  young  maidens  found  by  chance 
And  read  by  stealth  some  old  romance. 

Shakspeare  has  said,  men  without  books 
Find  them  in  trees  and  stones  and  brooks; 
Thus  in  the  solemn  solitude 
Of  the  o'ershadowing,  ancient  wood, 
Our  fathers  drew  from  nature  round 
Lessons  of  virtue,  truths  profound. 
Reasoned  on  theologic  themes, 


226 

Of  God's  eternal  plans  and  schemes. 
Dared  Heaven's  deep  purposes  to  scan. 
And  fix  the  destiny  of  man. 
Fndoubting  faith  in  Holy  Writ, 
Strong  common  sense  and  mother  wit, 
Wild  tales  beside  the  winter  hearth. 
Keen  repartee  and  genial  mirth. 
And  rough,  broad  humor,  stood  in  stead 
Of  floods  of  books  that  now  are  read. 

The  parties  of  that  early  day 

The  tide  of  years  has  swept  away; 

Their  sharp,  shrewd  leaders  here  no  more 

Muster  their  followers  as  of  yore; 

And  "Tunker'  now,  and  "Whickaneer*" 

To  modern  ears  sound  strange  and  queer; 

And  ''squat1'  and  " Jam f  "no more  are  known, 

As  party  watchwords  in  the  town; 

These  were  from  Plymouth's  barren  strand, 

And  those  from  Worcester's  stony  land; 

The  native  place  from  which  he  came 

Gave  to  each  man  his  party  name. 

The  Snells  and  Packards  for  town  honors, 

Strove  with  Wards,  Bradishes  and  Warners. 

*See  Note.  fSee  Note. 


227 


The  Tunker  said,  if  Whickaneer 

Shall  get  control  another  year. 

Calamities  not  soon  forgot. 

Will  be  our  melancholy  lot. 

And  the  fierce  Whickaneer  was  sure, 

That  there  could  be  no  other  cure 

For  the  sore  ills  that  plagued  the  hour, 

But  to  turn  Tunkers  out  of  power. 

Those  valiant  parties  that  with  might, 

Each  strove  for  what  it  claimed  was  right, 

Have  passed  away,  and  none  can  tell 

What  various  fortunes  them  befell. 

History,  now  gleaning  o'er  the  field, 

Can  gather  but  a  scanty  yield 

Of  facts,  and  even  tradition  here 

Finds  less  to  tell  each  passing  year. 

Then,  as  in  parties  of  to-day. 

Passion  and  prejudice  held  sway; 

A  bitter  struggle  then  for  power, 

Just  as  it  is  the  present  hour. 

Thus  parties  rise,  and  fade  and  fall,— 

A  tea-pot  tempest,  howe'er  small, 

Is  an  epitome  of  all. 

Amid  these  scenes  of  senseless  strife, 

Our  sires  did  not  forget  that  life 


228 


Has  higher  duties  far  than  those 
A  townsman  to  his  party  owes. 

They  planted  here  the  public  school— 
For  true  it  is  that  where'er  flows 
The  Yankee  blood  the  school  house  goes. 

They  reared  their  sons  by  strictest  rule 
To  reverence  age,  to  fear  the  Lord, 
And  keep  the  precepts  of  His  Word. 
To  saintly  lives  their  daughter  bred  ; 
To  sew,  to  cook  and  spin  the  thread, 
And  taught  all  duties  that  pertain 
To  household  thrift  and  honest  gain. 
At  length,  when  prosperous  times  had  come, 
Came  the  sad  years,  when  gin  and  rum, 
And  brandy  crowned  the  festal  board, 
And  cellars  were  with  cider  stored. 
On  public  days  was  heard  the  clink 
Of  glasses  where  men  mixed  the  drink; 
Mugs  and  half  mugs  were  quickly  swallowed, 
And  other  mugs  and  half  mugs  followed, 
And  soon  the  jostling,  glib-tongued  crowd 
Grew  garrulous,  profane  and  loud. 
For  sober  eyes  how  sad  a  sight! 
Ere  daylight  faded  into  night, 
When  kind  good  men.  except  for  rum. 


229 


At  day's  decline  went  reeling  home. 

Then  Deacons  took  their  morning  nip, 

The  justice  thought  no  harm  to  tip, 

And  preachers,  at  associations, 

Besmirched  "the  cloth"  with  deep  potations. 

Even  children  sipped  the  enticing  cup, 

Youth  drank  the  sweetened  poison  up, 

And  lives,  begun  with  rum  and  gin, 

Oft  closed  in  misery  and  sin. 

The  dreadful  evil  grew  apace, 

And  threatened  ruin  to  the  race; 

At  last  there  came  upon  the  stage 

Men  to  reform  the  tainted  age; 

-Brave  and  true  men,  who  gave  the  alarm, 

And  broke  the  tempter's  fatal  charm; 

Stayed  with  strong  hand  rum's  withering  flame, 

And  drove  the  Fiend  to  dens  of  shame; 

Till  now  the  light  of  brighter  skies 

On  purer,  happier  dwellings  lies. 

On  yonder  bare  and  rocky  steep, 

Where  the  wild  winds  of  Winter  sweep, 

Unchecked  by  sheltering  wood  or  hill, 

The  church  was  built,  and  gathered  there 
All  people  of  the  town  for  prayer, 

With  reverent  hearts  and  cheerful  will. 


There  from  its  old  wind-shakes  tower. 
"The  bell  rang  loud  with  gladsome  power;" 
Its  echoes,  on  the  morning  gale, 
Floated  far  over  hill  and  dale, 
And  told  to  every  rural  home, 
The  day  and  hour  of  prayer  had  come. 
There  Parson  Briggs,  the  kind  and  good. 
Long  fed  his  flock  with  spiritual  food. 
Stern  was  his  creed  and  orthordox, 
As  that  of  Calvin  or  John  Knox; 
Yet  he.  in  thought  and  word  and  deed. 
Was  vastly  better  than  his  creed. 
He  kept  all  heresies  at  bay 
'Till  fifty  years  had  passed  away; 
When  ripe  in  age,  his  hoary  head 
Was  gently  laid  among  the  dead. 
He  lived  a  pure  and  peaceful  life, 
Plain,  frugal,  hating  wrong  and  strife: 
A  man  of  meek- and  reverent  air, 
Beloved  and  honored  everywhere. 
Those  who  stood  round  him  in  that  day,— 
Fathers  and  mothers, — where  are  they? 
Gone  with  time's  refluent  waves,  that  sweep 
Earth's  children  to  a  common  sleep. 
Their  graves  are  wjth  you:  if  forgot 


231 


By  men,  by  nature  they  are  not. 

To  them  each  passing  year  shall  bring 

The  verdure  and  the  bloom  of  spring; 

And  o'er  them  shall  the  wild  birds  sing, 

The  wintry  winds  with  solemn  roar. 

O'er  their  low  beds  a  requiem  pour: 

And  Heaven's  kind  eye  shall  guard  them  still 

Where'er  they  sleep  on  plain  or  hill. 

0  may  we  all  with  careful  heed, 

Copy  in  life  each  noble  deed 

Of  those  brave  men  and  virtuous  dames 

Who  lived  and  died  with  honored  names, 

And  left  a  heritage  so  fair 

For  those  who  follow  them  to  share. 

Cast  back  your  thoughts  a  hundred  years; 

How  vast,  how  wide  the  change  appears; 

How  much  has  knowledge  gained  since  then, 

To  cheer  and  charm  the  homes  of  men; 

What  mighty  strides  has  science  made, 

How  wide  has  commerce  winged  our  trade, 

Compelled  remotest  seas  and  lands 

To  yield  their  tribute  to  our  hands, 

And  laid  their  treasures  at  our  feet. 

In  costly  wares  and  danties  sweet. 

If  all  the  comforts  of  to-day 


At  one  fell  blow  were  swept  away, 
Save  those  our  early  settlers  knew, 
How  blank  this  wyorld  would  seem  to  you! 
Should  we  not  feel  that  human  life 
Was  hardly  worth  the  toil  and  strife? 

Dear  native  town!  ah,  how  can  we 

Forget  to  love  and  cherish  thee ! 

The  rural  home,  where  first  we  met 

A  mother's  smile,  can  we  forget? 

Where  we  first  toddled  o'er  the  floor, 

Where  first  we  played  beside  the  door; 

Where  first,  with  rapturous  steps,  we  trod 

In  springtime  o'er  the  flowery  sod; 

Where  first  we  wandered  through  the  wood, 

Beneath  the  vast  dim  arches  stood, 

And  felt  the  inspiring  solitude; 

And  whence  went  forth  our  youthful  feet 

The  rougher  scenes  of  life  to  meet. 

These  slopes  where  earliest  comes  the  dawn, 

These  vales  among  the  hills  withdrawn, 

Those  grand  old  summits  where  the  eye 

Takes  in  the  embracing  earth  and  sky, 

These  rural  dwellings,  virtue's  seat, 

Where  love  and  peace  and  friendship  meet; 


238 

By  these,  by  every  stream  and  hill, 
Our  fondest  mem'ries  linger  still. 
Long  may  the  scenes  we  now  behold 
Be  cherished  here  by  young  and  old; 
And  noble  sons  and  daughters  fair, 
The  waste  of  every  age  repair; 
That  when  another  century's  dawn 
Shall  break  upon  Old  Cummington, 
Due  honors  may  be  paid  to  those 
Who  celebrate  the  last  one's  close. 


234 


A  MONODY. 

My  heart,  to-day,  is  far  away, 
I  seem  to  tread  my  native  hills; 

I  see  the  flocks  and  mossy  rocks, 
I  hear  the  gush  of  mountain  rills. 

There  with  me  walks  and  kindly  talks, 
The  dear,  dear  friend  of  all  my  years; 

We  laid  him  low  not  long  ago, 

At  Roslyn-side.  with  sobs  and  tears. 

But  though  I  know  that  this  is  so, 

I  will  not  have  it  so  to-day; 
The  illusion  still,  by  force  of  will. 

Shall  give  my  wayward  fancy  play. 

With  joy  we  roam  around  the  home, 
Where  in  our  childhood  days  we  played; 

We  tread  the  mead  with  verdure  spread, 
And  seek  the  wood  path's  grateful  shade. 


235 


We  climb  the  steep  where  fresh  winds  sweep. 
Where  oft  before  our  feet  have  trod. 
And  look  far  forth,  east,  south  and  north, 
"TTpon  the  glorious  works  of  God." 

We  tread  again  the  rocky  glen. 
Where  foaming  waters  dash  along; 

And  sit  alone  on  mossy  stone, 
Charmed  by  the  thrasher's  joyous  song. 

Anon  we  stray,  far,  far  away, 

The  club-moss  crumpling  'neath  our  tread, 
Seeking  the  spot  by  most  forgot 

Where  sleep  the  generations  dead. 

And  now  we  come  into  the  home— 

The  dear  old  home  our  childhood  knew; 

And  round  the  board  with  plenty  stored, 
We  gather  as  we  used  to  .do. 

With  reverence  now,  I  see  him  bow 
That  head  with  many  honors  crowned, 

All  white  his  locks  as  Judah's  flocks, 
That  fed  on  Carrael's  holy  ground. 


236 

Again  we  meet  in  converse  sweet, 

Around  the  blazing  cottage  hearth; 
And  while  away  the  closing  day 
With  quiet  talk  and  tales  of  mirth. 

The  spell  is  broke!    0,  cruel  stroke! 

The  illusive  vision  will  not  stay; 
My  fond,  sweet  dream  was  fancy's  gleam, 
Which  stubborn  fact  has  chased  away. 

I  am  alone,  my  friend  is  gone, 
He'll  seek  no  more  that  lovely  scene; 

His  eye  no  more  shall  wander  o'er 
Those  wooded  hills  and  pastures  green. 

No  more  te'll  look  upon  the  brook. 

Whose  banks  his  infant  feet  had  prest; 
The  little  rill,  whose  waters  still, 

Come  dancing  from  the  rosy  west. 

Nor  will  he  climb,  at  autumn  time 
Those  hills,  the  glorious  sight  to  view; 

When  in  their  best  the  woods  are  drest. 
The  same  his  raptured  boyhood  knew. 


237 


The  hermit  thrush,  at  twilight  hush,' 
He'll  hear  no  more  with  deep  delight; 

No  blossoms  gay  beside  the  way, 
Attract  his  quick  and  eager  sight. 

The  lulling  sound,  from  pines  around, 
No  more  shall  soothe  his  noonday  rest, 

Nor  trailing  cloud  with  misty  shroud 
For  him  the  morning  hills  invest. 

That  voice  so  sweet,  that  late  did  greet 
My  ear,  each  passing  summer  tide, 

Is  silent  now — that  reverent  brow 
Rests  in  the  grave  at  Roslyn-side. 

PRINCETON,  ILL.,  August,  1878. 


238 


NOTE. — PAGE  161,  To  H.— 1831. 

The  person  to  whom  these  lines  were  addressed  was,  at  the 
time  they  were  written,  living  at  the  then  village  of  Springfield, 
Illinois,  and  the  writer  then  resided  at  Jacksonville,  and  occasion 
ally  wrote  verses  for  the  Jacksonville  paper,  under  the  name  of 
Prairie  Bard,  while  H.,  whose  re.il  name  I  have  forgotten,  wrote 
poems  in  the  Scotch  dialect  for  the  Sangamo  Journal.  He  was  an 
emigrant  from  the  north  of  England,  and  I  think  lived  at  Spring 
field  only  a  few  months.  In  one  of  his  poems  he  bantered  me  to 
write  some  verses  in  praise  of  the  Mauvaiseterre,  the  principal 
stream  in  the  neighborhood  of  Jacksonville,  while  he  would  do  the 
same  thing  for  the  Sangamo  river;  and  hence  this  poem  to  II.  At 
that  time  what  is  now  Scingamon  was  written  Sangamo,  as  San 
gamo  County,  the  Sangamo  Journal,  Sangamo  River,  leaving  off 
the  terminal  letter. 


XOTE. — PAGE  76  SENATCHWIXE'S  GRAVE. 

Twelve  or  fifteen  years  since,  Senatchwine  was  an  eminent  chief 
of  the  tribe  of  Pottawatomies,  in  Illinois,  enjoving  more  influence 
and  a  greater  reputation  for  talents  than  any  other.  The  Indian 
traders,  who  knew  him  well,  say  he  was  a  truly  great  man,  an 
orator  and  a  warrior.  He  died  at  an  advanced  age,  in  the  year  1830, 
and  was  buried  by  a  small  stream  which  bears  his  name,  and  which 
runs  through  the  south-eastern  part  of  Bureau  County.  His  hunt 
ing  grounds  are  in  that  vicinity.  The  circumstance  alluded  to  in 
the  line, 

And  here  the  silken  blue-grass  springs, 

is  familiar  to  the  western   people,   who  have  a  proverbial  saving 
that  the  blue-grass  springs  up  wherever  an  Indian  foot  has  stopped. 


Though  this  may  not  be  literally  true,  yet  it  is  certain  that  the 
blue-grass  is  always  found  growing  where  the  Indians  have  en 
camped,  though  it  might  have  been  only  for  a  few  days.  This  kind 
of  grass  makes  a  soft  rich  turf,  thick  with  blades,  in  which  respect 
it  is  very  different  from  the  common  coarse  grass  of  the  prairies. 
[This  note  was  written  in 


NOTES  TO  PAGE  226. 

*'i"he  Tunkers  as  they  were  called  by  the  early  settlers,  were 
from  Plymouth  countv.  The  Whickaneers  came  from  the  county 
of  Worcester. 

flf  a  Tunker  bruised  his  ringer  he  said  he  had  "squat"  it.  The 
Whickaneer  describing  a  similar  accident  used  the  word  "jam." 
"Squat"  and  "jam"  were  for  a  time  party  watchwords,  and  those 
on  both  sides  used  to  rally  each  other  on  the  use  of  those  words. 
In  the  course  of  a  few  years  the  families  inter-married  to  such  an 
extent  that  it  became  difficult  to  keep  up  party  lines,  and  tradition 
says  it  was  finally  agreed  to  drop  both  words  and  compromise  on 
"bruise."  Thus  was  brought  about  an  "era  of  good  feeling." 


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